


Cliff's Edge

by editingatwork



Series: The Escort AU [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, Angst, Chirping, Coming Out, Fluff, Future Fic, High School Reunion, Hockey Talk, M/M, Slow Burn, Sports Injury, sap, this fic is not on hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8238305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editingatwork/pseuds/editingatwork
Summary: Alexei Mashkov was poised for NHL stardom, until a devastating injury ended his hockey career and all his dreams for the future. Nearly a decade later, he's working as an escort in New York City, and is hired by none other than Kent Parson--to attend a high school reunion, of all things.They both think the night will begin and end with the transaction between escort and client. But nothing in Alexei's life is ever that easy.





	1. Work My Mind

Alexei gives his shirt collar a tug and rings the bell. From inside there’s a bang, a yell of “Kit!” and then scuffling. Alexei blinks. The door opens.

The man that stands before him is nearly a foot shorter than Alexei, blonde, and wearing a white button-up with what looks like fried rice all over the front.

Alexei is flabbergasted, but still a professional. “Kent Parson?”

The man--Kent Parson--rubs between his eyes and groans. “Yeah. Come on in, you’re right on time.” He steps back and waves Alexei in. Alexei closes the door behind him and watches Kent head back into his kitchen, where a Chinese takeout box has exploded on the tiled floor. An overly fluffy cat is chowing down.

“Kit, no,” Kent scolds, though it’s more of a sigh. To Alexei he calls, “Make yourself comfortable, I gotta...” He waves vaguely at the mess and grabs a wad of paper towels.

Alexei is in formal wear, as requested (slacks, button-up, and dress jacket, but no tie, the shirt blue and the suit tan) but he comes over to help.

“You don’t have to,” Kent says as Alexei squats to help him wipe up fried rice.

“Go change,” Alexei says, nodding at Kent’s dirtied shirt. “I can clean.”

Kent chuckles and stands. “Fine. Just don’t get anything on your clothes,” he says, looking Alexei up and down. “You won’t fit any of mine.” He leaves Alexei alone in his stainless steel, over-done kitchen, with just the mess and Kent’s cat for company. Alexei wipes up the rice and gently nudges the cat out of the way to get at the bit she--he?--is eating.

“Don’t eat that, you get fat,” Alexei says to the cat, who, up close, is a little roly-poly. “Hm. More fat.” He shoves the dirtied paper towel into the carton and looks around for a trash can.

When Kent returns, wearing a fresh shirt, pants, and jacket, Alexei is wiping up the last of the soy sauce stains from the tile.

“Thanks,” Kent says. He checks his watch. “Fuck.”

Alexei tosses the last of the paper towels and goes to wash his hands in the sink. “Are we late?”

“No. Well. Fashionably late. Which I wanted, but.” Tugging at his shirt collar--which is buttoned all the way up to the neck and looks uncomfortably tight--he falls back against one of the counters. “It’s a high school reunion. You know that, right?”

Alexei nods. “You told agency. They tell me.” He has the basic details; they wouldn’t send him in blind. He also knows who Kent Parson is, although he hadn’t needed a client write-up to tell him that. Alexei had played hockey all his life, had even been up for the NHL draft--until a busted knee and some torn ligaments had ended any hope of a hockey career. He’d gotten to America on his own, worked a laundry list of odd jobs before landing this one.

Escort services to the rich and famous were ridiculously selective about who they hired. Moreover, they were selective about who they sent to WHOM. Kent Parson was the first celebrity whose career Alexei actually cared about, but he was not Alexei’s first rodeo with the rich and famous. Not by a long shot.

This would, however, be his first time escorting someone to a high school reunion.

“Right,” Kent was saying. “Well. Guess we’d better...” He heads for the door. Alexei follows him, stepping outside the apartment and waiting for Kent to lock up.

They take the elevator to the basement floor, where an underground garage houses an array of expensive cars. Kent clicks his keys into the dim light, and a flashy red sports car chirps in response.

“Is nice car,” Alexei says, climbing into the passenger side. Kent hits the driver’s seat with a thump and slams his door shut a little harder than necessary.

“Thanks.” He cracks a grin, twisting the key in the ignition and shifting gears to reverse. “I actually hate driving. I thought if I was gonna do it, I was damn well going to get a nice car.”

“May as well enjoy it.”

“Exactly.” Kent pulls out of the parking spot and a few minutes later they exit the garage.

Alexei slides his fingertips across the leather seat; it’s soft and plush and warm, like skin. He rubs his hand across it and thinks Kent might be thinking the same thing when his grey eyes catch on the motion beside him.

“I like I can feel engine purr.” His thumb draws sensual circles on the edge of this seat. “Can feel through my clothes in my skin.”

Kent is watching the road but he is also watching Alexei, small flicks of his gaze there and back. At the next red light, Kent says, “I know what you’re doing. But you don’t have to. It’s just this dinner, and the party after, and maybe getting me home if I get too drunk. It doesn’t even have to be a full boyfriend experience. I just need a date. A warm body next to me.”

Kent Parson is gorgeous and Alexei would blow him in the back seat of this car if he asked. But he’s not. Alexei says, “All right. I understand.” And because Kent’s knuckles are still white on the wheel, he ventures, “Just want help you relax. You are tense. Is reunion, not 2010 Stanley Finals shootout, yes? No pressure.”

The laughter that bubbles out of Kent seems to take him by surprise. There’s a bit of red on his cheeks when he actually, finally looks at Alexei. “So you do know your shit. I wondered.” The light turns green. Kent accelerates the car, switching lanes as he goes. “Did you Google me first, or are you a fan?”

“Of hockey, or of Aces?”

“Do I have to dignify that with an answer?”

Alexei settles back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap. “You are playing Providence Falconers next month in preseason, yes? We will wipe floor with you.”

Kent’s laughter comes on the heels of a groan of despair. “Of fucking course you’re a Falconers fan. Get the fuck out of my car.”

“We are on highway, I think I wait.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Kent says, still laughing, and it makes Alexei laugh, too. “A Falconers fan as my dinner date. Of fucking course.” He blows out a breath. “You know, it occurs to me as of literally right now that I’m a jackass. I never asked for your name.”

“Is all right. My name is Alexei Mashkov. You can call me Alexei.”

“Be kinda weird to call my dinner date ‘Mr. Mashkov,’” Kent agrees, and Alexei watches him bite his lip and squint vaguely into the distance, like he’s concentrating on a memory he can’t quite get to coalesce. Eventually he shakes it off. “You can call me Kent.”

“Or Kenny?”

A shadow passes over Kent’s face. “Prefer if you didn’t.”

“I understand. Kent, then.”

“Alexei.”

Five minutes later, they’re approaching a posh restaurant on the edge of the city. Kent pulls the car up to the curb half a block away, letting the engine idle while he flexes his hands on the wheel and draws two deep, measured breaths.

“Maybe is my imagination, but I think you don’t want to go,” Alexei offers.

“Give the man prize.” Kent’s voice has an edge that it didn’t have before. He draws another measured breath, loses control of it halfway through, and abruptly falls forward to thunk his head on the steering wheel. “Fuck.”

Alexei licks his lips, hesitating. Kent Parson is, first and foremost, the best hockey player the league has seen since Gretzky. He’s the youngest person ever to receive the C from his team, marketably handsome, gregarious, and intelligent, both on camera and on the ice.

He’s also the first NHL player in history to come out publicly as gay.

Alexei remembers watching the press conference secondhand on an unofficial account on Youtube, crammed in a bathroom stall at the train station because he couldn’t wait until he got home. He’d read the headlines scrolling through the NHL feeds and couldn’t believe it. He remembers clearly how poised Kent had looked. How confident he’d been at the mic, how honest he’d been with his answers to the press and how politely firm he’d been in response to questions that he shouldn’t have dignified a response.

Alexei remembers that Kent on TV, and reconciles it with this Kent, hunched over the steering wheel of his expensive sports car outside a restaurant in Manhattan trying to calm himself down enough to face the people he want to high school with.

“We don’t have to go.”

Kent makes a muffled, inquiring sound.

“We don’t have to go,” Alexei repeats. “To dinner. To party. To any of it. No one knows you are here. Just skip reunion.”

“That’s called being a chickenshit,” Kent says, still talking to the steering wheel.

“Kent, fuck reunion. You have man in car with you who will blow you in back seat right now, if you ask. Let you fuck my face and come on it, if you ask. Because you paid me? No. Because even though sometimes you are rat who make cheap shots on goalies, you are first NHL player who come out, and not _chickenshit_.”

Kent’s ears have gone red. He picks his head off the steering wheel to stare at Alexei. The rest of his face is quickly matching his ears.

“You play very beautiful hockey,” Alexei confesses.

Kent stares at him for a very long time. Eventually he swallows--still red--and declares, “Hope you like steak. We’re going to that fucking reunion.”


	2. Tied Together With a Smile

Kent drives them up to the restaurant. Valet parking claims the car, leaving Alexei and Kent to walk up to the entrance.

“Wait,” Alexei says, before Kent can open the door. He gestures for Kent to turn towards him. “May I?”

“May you, what?”

“Your shirt collar.”

“Yes?”

Alexei undoes three of the buttons. His fingers come into contact with flushed skin and he’s not sorry about it. “Better. You looked like office man who forget tie.”

“With that gold chain, you look like a mobster who forgot his brass knuckles.”

“I not forget, they are in my coat pocket.” He brushes Kent’s shoulders to smooth them out.

Kent turns and reaches for the door handle, escaping the cool September air for the warmth of the restaurant. “You say that so deadpan I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”

Alexei grins. “Good. Is more fun playing with you, that way.”

Kent isn’t looking at him, and the expression that crosses his face isn’t quite a smile; it’s too strained. Alexei replays his words in his head but can’t find anything wrong with them. He lets it go for the time being and stands aside while Kent talks to the host about his reunion class’s reserved seating.

The restaurant is nice. Alexei’s not surprised when they’re lead to a separate dining room. A banner above the door says “Welcome Class of 2008!”

Inside is a multitude of tables, a bar, and a small side area meant to be a dance floor. High white arches and polished maple make up the decor. The dining room holds seven tables, all circular with white tablecloths, and each one seats five people. Nearly every seat is filled. When Kent and Alexei enter the room, there’s no lull in conversation to indicate that they’ve been seen, but out of the crowd someone boisterously shouts, “Kent Parson!”

Kent’s camera smile switches on like a light.

There’s food at the tables and a name card for every seat. The waiter guides them to the table with Kent’s card. There’s an empty seat next to Kent’s, but the name on the card is “David Sutner.”

Kent laughs. “Ah, shit, I forgot to check ‘plus one’. Sorry, ‘Lexi.”

Alexei realizes Kent is talking to him. “It’s all right,” he says.  _I can sit on your lap_ , he wants to say. But the earlier teasing wasn’t warmly received and Kent still seems on edge. Alexei settles for politeness. “I find place to sit.”

A woman at the table gestures to the empty chair. “My husband is sick with the flu,” she explains. Alexei reads her name card: Madison Sutner. “You’re welcome to his seat.”

“Thanks,” Kent says, and pulls out the vacant chair for Alexei before sitting down himself. “Quite a turnout.”

“It is, isn’t it?” says the man at Kent’s left. “Considering it wasn’t a very large graduating class to begin with. And so many people RSVP’d that they’d be out of the country or busy with one thing or another, so the guest list was short-changed even further.” He grins at Kent, his fork halfway through a floret of broccoli on his plate. “We’re really glad you could make it, Kent.” His words seem genuine and so does his smile.

“Glad I could, too,” Kent replies. “Sorry I’m late. Um. Hank, right?”

“Henry, actually,” the man says, although he doesn’t look disappointed. “Don’t worry, it’s been a while.”

“No, I—We played ping-pong together in gym class once, right? That half-assed tournament the teacher threw together to eat up time.”

Henry laughs. “That’s right. We got our asses handed to us. That was more my fault than yours, I was never any good at sports. You at least had decent aim.”

“Not that good. I’m lucky that hockey is played with sticks instead of paddles.”

Alexei has to laugh at the ridiculousness of that mental image. “That would be hilarious.”

“Oh, right.” Kent puts a hand on Alexei’s shoulder. “Henry, this is my--this is Alexei Mashkov.”

Henry extends his hand across the table. “Henry Dubois.” He pronounces it “du- _boys.”_

Alexei takes the offered hand and shakes it firmly. “Thank you for making room for me.”

The other woman at the table lights up. “Oh, your accent. I know it, give me a minute. Is it Russian?”

“ _Da. Pravil’no,_ ” Alexei replies. He likes the little flush of excitement in her cheeks that appears when he speaks. He’s here for Kent and committed to that endeavor, but there’s no harm to be had in satisfying a linguiphile’s curiosity. “English is my second language. It’s not so good.”

“Oh, goodness, don’t say that. You speak it quite well.”

“You’re too kind,” Alexei replies. “But if I’m having too much wine with dinner, it will become worse.”

Kent clears his throat. “Speaking of which. How do we order?”

Madison shows them their menus and flags down someone from the wait staff. The rest of the people at the table are almost finished eating, and have either ordered a dessert or are just chatting and sipping wine. The room is big but not make-shift, clearly built specifically for accommodating large groups. It’s all very high-end, even for a group of adults all pooling their money. Alexei looks around and sees a lot of tailoring in the suits on the men, and an array of gold, semi-precious stones, and a few diamonds on the ladies. These people either started out wealthy or all did very well for themselves. Alexei knows Kent went to high school in New York, but not where, because he follows Kent’s hockey stats, not his Wikipedia page.

Their food comes quickly. So does the whiskey sour that Kent orders, which he seems all too happy to start in on.

“So, Alexei,” says Henry. “What do you do? What’s your day job?”

Kent takes a big gulp of his drink. Alexei says, “Sales, at insurance firm. Is small local company, not very big, but good people.”

Conversation continues, and Kent is alternately press-ready friendly and quietly draining his glass. Alexei doesn’t mind; he chatters with Kent’s old classmates as easily as with anyone, happy to meet new people and provide the buffer Kent obviously needs. It’s strange, though. Kent isn’t incapable of charming a room full of people. But despite the ordinariness of this group, Kent is acting like it’s a bomb about to go off.

Alexei’s heard the term ‘high school hangover’ but never actually seen it applied, before.

When a lull next comes in the conversation, he looks at Kent and pretends to notice something. “Ah,  _solnyško,_ you have...” He turns halfway in his seat and smooths his fingers over the shoulder of Kent’s jacket until he plucks away an imaginary hair. “You are shed again. Like Kit.”

Kent doesn’t choke on his whiskey, but only because he manages to swallow it first. “Shut up, I don’t shed.”

Alexei fakes picking another strand off his collar. “Right. I am imagining blond hairs all over.”

“They are not  _all over_.” Kent sets down his glass and brushes at his jacket anyway. He stops almost a second later and huffs, because the jacket is clean and Alexei is smiling to himself. “You--you’re a menace.” He’s biting his lip against a smile, though, an honest one. “Eat your damn steak.”

Madison laughs. “You two sound like me and Dave. How long have you been together?”

Kent answers without so much as a glance in Alexei’s direction. “Uh. Not long. It’s still pretty new.”

“Well, you flirt like an old married couple,” Madison says. “I’d start picking out curtains now, if I were you.”

Kent laughs awkwardly and Alexei puts on a bashful grin. Alexei has settled his arm along the back of Kent’s chair, pressed close enough that he doesn’t have to imagine Kent’s body heat seeping through his clothes; he can feel it. He can smell Kent’s cologne, too, a gentle geranium with hints of mandarin and patchouli to make it sweet and earthy. He wants to lean into Kent’s space and taste it fresh off the curve of his neck. He wants to make Kent purr like the engine of his car.

He sees Kent taking another long drink of his whiskey sour like it’s a lifeline.

He wants Kent to relax.

“Hey, KP!” Another dinner guest has left his table and arrived at theirs. He inserts himself into the limited space between Kent and Henry and holds out a hand. “Good to see you!”

“Hey,” Kent says, and accepts the handshake. “You, too.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “You remember me, right?”

There’s a long pause, during which Alexei can practically  _hear_  Kent mentally sifting for a name, and at the end of it he just says, “Sorry.”

“Shawn Taylor, come on!” He gives Kent’s shoulder a friendly punch. The movement jostles Alexei’s arm a little but Alexei doesn’t let himself be dislodged. Shawn is handsome in many of the same ways Kent is, namely in the jawline and confident curve of his smile. He’s wearing a suit jacket and slacks that look custom-fitted to his physique. He’s not fit the way Kent is (hockey muscle packed on for maximum power and efficiency) but in the svelte and tailored manner of a good gym membership and personal trainer.

He has a woman on his arm who is dark in eyes, hair, and skin, and wearing an equally custom-fitted dress that clings to her curves like second skin. She has a light in her eyes when she looks at Kent, the kind of breathless awe that Alexei feels when he watches clips of Kent tearing up the ice in tense third-period power plays. Alexei thinks he knows what that means.

Shawn says, “Congrats on that Stanley win last year! What is that, now, three?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Thanks, man.”

“Got a little close, there, in the semi-finals, right? Is that what you call them? I’m not a hockey fan,” Shawn adds, waving a hand and giving a little laugh. “But when I saw you on TV that first time, it was like, ‘Hey, I went to high school with that guy.’”

“It was probably the Western Conference semis. Against St. Louis,” Kent replies. “It was a pretty intense game.”

The woman with Shawn exclaims, “Oh god, I was on pins and needles that whole last period. I can’t believe it went into double OT.”

“Hannah knows all the hockey lingo,” Shawn says. “She showed me about a million clips from your games last year.”

“It wasn’t  _that_  many.” Hannah gives Shawn’s shoulder a teasing push that makes him laugh. To Kent, she says, “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to gush over you over dinner, but I’m a  _huge_  Aces fan.”

Kent offers his hand and she takes it, looking thrilled. “All the best people are.”

Alexei snorts a laugh before he can stop it. Shawn’s gaze moves to him, and the arm that Alexei still has draped over the back of Kent’s chair. “Sorry, you are?”

“Alexei Mashkov. I’m here with Kent.” The addition of “obviously” goes unsaid.

Hannah offers her hand to him, too, and he takes it. “Hannah Roux. Do you play hockey, too?” She’s giving him the same thoughtful look that Kent had when he’d asked Alexei’s name in the car.

“No. I’m just a fan.” When they part, Alexei drops his arm back across Kent’s chair. 

Shawn gestures to Alexei. “Big guy like you, I’ll bet you’d go right through our boy KP.”

“Size not matter against skill,” Alexei replies. “Garry Howatt is famous Islanders player, won Stanley Cup twice. Only 5′9″ but has nickname ‘Toy Tiger’ because he was so fierce on ice.”

“Are you an Islanders’ fan?” Hannah asks.

“No, I like Providence Falconers. It is new team, but I like their starting line. Good defensemen, and goalie is excellent. Very cohesive playing.”

Hannah gasps. “Jack Zimmermann is my all-time favorite player--after you, of course,” she says to Kent, who grins and winks. “My friend’s sister went to his alma mater, Samwell U. She doesn’t care about hockey, but she said the hockey team’s kegsters--er, parties, were the bomb. And when Jack took over the captaincy, it was the first time in years that Samwell got anywhere near the Frozen Four. I’m just so in awe of him.”

“Jack’s a great player,” Kent agrees. “The Falcs were smart to recruit him.”

“You two were in the Q together, though, right? You were  _such_  a great team. If he’d gone with the Aces, you’d have the Cup, like, every year.”

Alexei doesn’t hear any tension in Kent when he laughs, but he feels it in the straightness of Kent’s shoulders, the rigidness of the muscles in his neck. “Well that just wouldn’t be fair. We have to give the other teams a shot, right?”

Alexei shifts so he can rub his thumb along the knobs of Kent’s spine, just below his jacket collar. It’s an idle soothing gesture that is both affectionate and possessive. Kent doesn’t exactly relax into it, but his weight shifts back fractionally to press against Alexei’s touch.

Shawn’s eyes are still subtly tracking Alexei’s interactions with Kent. “She’ll gush all night if you let her,” Shawn says, putting an arm around Hannah’s waist and squeezing. “We’ll let you finish your dinner.”

Hannah blushes and gives Shawn’s shoulder another shove. “You shush. I’m just excited. He’s right, though, we’ll let you guys eat.”

“I don’t mind.” Kent’s voice is warm. Alexei thinks he means it, for all that he still feels stiff in his seat. “I love meeting hockey fans. If you’re staying for the after party, we can chat some more.”

“Oh my god, that would be amazing. And, Mr. Parson--”

“Kent, please.”

“Kent. Can I just say how incredibly brave it was for you to come out? It was so inspiring. The sports world needs more people like you.”

Alexei feels Kent’s body expand and deflate on a deep breath. “That’s... Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

Hannah grins and waves as Shawn draws her away. “It was good to meet you!”

“You, too.”

“See you later, buddy!” Shawn calls.

Dinner finishes quickly after that, mostly because Kent focuses on the task. The people around him continue to chat, and others visit their table to catch up and congratulate Kent on what little they know of his achievements. It becomes clear to Alexei that, with the exception of Hannah--whom he finds out didn’t even attend Kent’s high school--next to nobody here knows anything about hockey. Or Kent. Just that Kent is famous for playing hockey, and being gay.

By the time the plates are cleared and the DJ is setting up, Kent has finished two whiskey sours and has gone to the bar to order a screwdriver. Alexei joins him and asks for a White Russian, just to see the disappointed look on Kent’s face.

“Again, I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or being serious,” Kent says when Alexei’s drink arrives. “Are you actually that much of a stereotype, or playing it up because you have an audience?”

"Little of both.” Alexei’s mix hasn’t settled yet; the vodka, liqueur, and cream are still gently swirling together in the glass. When he takes his first sip, he gets a streak of cream across his upper lip. He holds Kent’s gaze as he wipes the mess off with his thumb, slips the dirty digit into his mouth, and sucks it clean.

Kent’s only response is to glance at Alexei’s wet lips, back at his eyes, and then turn away towards the room at large, casually sipping his screwdriver like there isn’t a flush crawling up his neck and ears.

The lights dim halfway and the music starts. It’s loud but not painfully so, and the playlist contains an array of singles that Alexei only vaguely recognizes, likely because they were popular in America when Alexei was in Russia. A few couples take over the designated dance floor. Those who didn’t leave after dinner find seats at the tables or the bar to chat. Hannah finds Kent again and pulls him into a lengthy conversation about hockey. Alexei leaves them to it. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or maybe the hockey-talk, but as Alexei watches Kent lean an elbow on the bar counter and hook a foot over one of the rungs on his stool, all the while gesturing animatedly, he thinks that this is the most relaxed he’s seen Kent act all night.

Alexei goes back to their table, half-empty drink in hand. He’s still trying to work out why Kent was so nervous about being here that he hired an escort to accompany him and then almost backed out of attending. The majority of the people here are definitely socialites, and they’ve shown very little knowledge of Kent’s work or his accomplishments, but they haven’t been unfriendly. Several people, when they approached the table to say hello, offered their support of Kent’s coming out, however awkward or clumsy some of them were about it. Even Shawn, who’s been giving Alexei the side-eye all night, hasn’t come right out and been a dick.

Time passes. People either become more drunk and boisterous, or head home. Alexei politely excuses himself from an energetic conversation about curse words in various languages (mostly Russian, with Alexei demonstrating) to check on Kent. Hannah has moved to the dance floor with Shawn, and in her place at the bar are a man and a woman Alexei doesn’t know. They’re chatting amicably enough with Kent, although as Alexei watches, he sees Kent doing more nodding than speaking. Mostly, Kent just takes deep sips of his drink, which even in this dim light, Alexei can see isn’t a screwdriver.

Alexei comes to Kent’s side and touches his arm to get his attention. Kent looks up at him, his gaze liqueur-soft but not quite drunk. He grins at Alexei and pushes his fist into Alexei’s side in what’s probably intended to be a playful punch. “There you are. Fuckin’ lost you. Thought you left without me.”

On impulse, Alexei leans in to kiss Kent’s temple. “I would not do that, s _olnyško_.”

“You keep calling me that,” Kent says. “What’s it mean?”

Instead of answering, Alexei speaks to the man and woman sitting with Kent. “May I borrow him?”

The woman laughs, and the man grins and waves them off. Alexei urges Kent off the barstool. Kent comes along, a bit unsteady on his feet but not needing Alexei to hold him up. Alexei takes him by the hand and leads him along.

“Where are we going?”

“We are going to dance.”

Kent snorts. “Yeah, sure, why not.”

Hannah, Shawn, and several others are on the dance floor. The song playing is up-beat and cheesy, but catchy. Alexei even recognizes it. Everyone else is laughing and singing along, and as Alexei draws Kent in front of him, he sings along, too.

Kent takes one second to process Alexei jamming to the Spice Girls’s  _Wannabe_  and cracks up so hard he almost falls. Alexei grabs him by the hands to keep him up.

“ _Making love’s forever, friendship never ends_ —Kent, you have to know song, why aren’t you singing?”

Kent keeps laughing, but moves his arms and feet along to the music. “You’re gonna kill me,” he snickers, and wipes tears from his eyes. “Jesus fuck.”

“Dance, Kent!”

“I am, I am, shut up!” Kent even sings with him, never stumbling once over the words even though his feet sometimes betray him. Alexei doesn’t let go of his hands, both to keep Kent up and because he doesn’t want to.

 _Wannabe_  ends and changes over into a Taylor Swift ballad. Kent snickers but sings along to this, too, swaying slowly with his fingers curled around Alexei’s. Alexei tugs until Kent comes forward and leans against him. They slow dance together, just swaying. Alexei releases his grip on Kent’s hands and wraps his arms around Kent’s waist. Kent rests his hands on Alexei’s shoulders and his forehead on Alexei’s chest, ducking so he’s tucked right under Alexei’s chin. It’s so  _easy_ , the way they fit together. Kent’s cologne has faded and mixed with the musk of his own skin. Alexei turns his nose into Kent’s hair and inhales without shame.

“Quit sniffing me,” Kent mumbles. “It tickles.”

“I like your smell,  _solnyško_.”

Kent shifts. “What’s that mean?”

“ _Solnyško_?”

“Yeah. You can’t call me shit I don’t understand.”

“I’m thinking I already am, all night.”

“You gonna tell me or what?”

Alexei kisses Kent’s hair, because it’s close and because he can. “Means, ‘sun.’ Because you are gold.”

He feels Kent take a shuddering breath against him. Kent doesn’t say anything further, and Alexei doesn’t break the silence. From the speakers, Taylor sings about tyin’ things up with a smile and comin’ undone.


	3. One Bad Night

They stay almost exclusively on the dance floor ‘til the end of the party. The last song to play is  _American Boy_. Alexei keeps his hands on Kent’s hips for the length of it, with Kent’s arms draped over Alexei’s shoulders. Alexei’s face hurts from grinning and laughing as Kent belts out the entire song--and rap interludes--perfectly on-tempo but horribly off-key.

“Okay, folks,” the DJ announces when the song has ended. “That’s all the time we have. You’ve been fantastic, let’s give a hand to St. Anne’s Academy Class of 2008!”

Exuberant applause erupts from around the room, as those still in attendance make up for their small number with volume and energy. The lights come on and douse the soft ambiance in the harsh glare of reality. Alexei pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time: 1:31am. They’ve been here for roughly five hours. It’s felt longer than that, and like no time at all.

Kent is still in Alexei’s arms and humming to himself. Some time ago they’d taken a break from dancing to visit the men’s room (not at the same time), get another round of drinks at the bar, and demolish a bowl of pretzels and peanuts. Kent is officially drunk, but in a pleasantly buzzed kind of way. He’s permanently glued to Alexei by now, using Alexei’s arms and shoulders to steady himself any time he’s upright, even if he doesn’t really appear to need it.

Alexei is glad the White Russian was some hours ago, and that he went non-alcoholic on his last order at the bar, because it looks like he’s going to be the one driving Kent home.

The restaurant’s wait staff are standing at the doors to the dining room and at the building’s front door as well. They help the tipsy party-goers retrieve their coats and bags and call cabs. Kent shucked his jacket at some point and it takes Alexei several minutes to find it, flung on the seat of a random chair.

Kent pulls it on and pats his pockets, taking out his phone to check the time. “Haha, shit. I’ve got a flight back to Vegas tomorrow.” He puts the phone back and stretches clumsily. “’M gonna be so hungover. Where’s my car?”

They go out to valet parking. Kent gives the driver his ticket stub and they stand on the sidewalk in comfortable silence while they wait.

“Alexei!” Hannah emerges from the small crowd on the sidewalk. She’s tipsy and grinning, her hair mussed and her makeup faded, the very picture of a woman who’s had a fun night. She has her phone out and she points to it excitedly when she approaches them. “Alexei, I knew it! I knew I’d heard your name before, look--” She holds up her phone so Alexei can squint at the screen. It’s a Russian news site, translated into English.  _Injury ends future NHL career for Russian defender Alexei Mashkov._  “I couldn’t find the, um. The what’s it, the article, from the ‘07 draft? The official one. But I remember hearing about it. I’m so sorry.”

Kent’s frowning. He reaches for the phone and angles Hanna’s grip so he can read what’s on the screen. His brows furrow but he doesn’t say anything.

Alexei smiles at Hannah, because she looks truly sympathetic. “Is all right. Accident was many years ago.”

“Yeah, but like. Your whole career. Just, whoosh.” Hannah puts her hand on his arm. “That just sucks. So much.”

It had. Two weeks in the hospital, eight weeks in physical therapy, and at the end of it, he’d still been declared unfit for an athletic career. Alexei’s jersey had arrived two days before they gave him the news. He’d burned it. He wishes he hadn’t.

What he says to Hannah is, “Thank you. I appreciate very much.”

“Yeah, of course.” Hannah gives his arm another pat and takes her phone back from Kent. He relinquishes it without a word. “Anyway, I’m really sorry, but I’m so glad I got to meet you. And Kent, too. You’re just amazing. Good luck this season.”

Kent looks at her and smiles like he’s forgotten how to do it right. “Yeah.”

Hannah grins at them both and goes back to Shawn, who’s been watching them from a few feet down the sidewalk. He puts an arm around her and guides her into a cab, giving Alexei and Kent a nod before following. The cab drives off.

Kent’s car pulls up in front of them.

“I’ll drive,” Alexei says when the valet opens the driver’s side door. “Kent, is okay?”

“I’m drunk,” Kent replies, which both the valet and Alexei take as agreement, especially when Kent goes around the car and climbs into the passenger seat. Alexei tips the valet--he doesn’t mind doing it out of his own pocket--and gets in after Kent. The car is warm. The engine is purring and Alexei can feel it through the leather seats in his skin. Kent is sprawled in his seat, leaning against the door and looking out his window, silent.

Alexei flicks on the turn signal and guides the car into the flow of traffic. He doesn’t remember the route they took from Kent’s apartment, but he knows which part of town Kent lives in, and he knows the city. He doesn’t have to intrude on Kent’s thoughts as he changes lanes and turns down different streets.

“I’m an idiot,” Kent says after a long while. He’s still looking out the window. “I was in the goddamn Q. I ate, lived, and breathed the NHL. I got drafted the year after you.” He groans and thumps his forehead against the glass. “Sorry.”

“Is okay,” Alexei says.

“Do you--” Kent falls into awkward silence, and then finishes, “I know it was a decade ago, but do you wanna talk about it?”

Alexei doesn’t have to think. “No.”

“Right.” Kent runs a hand through his hair. “Right.”

They’re both quiet the rest of the way. Alexei doesn’t think the silence is uncomfortable, nor tense, but he can’t tell if Kent feels the same.

When they arrive at the parking garage under Kent’s building, Alexei pauses at the gate entrance. It’s after hours and the yellow bar is down. There’s no one in the attendant’s booth. “Kent, I need code to get in.”

Rather than verbalize it, Kent unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs right into Alexei’s space, leaning halfway out the window to punch the numbers in. He’s small for a hockey player but larger-than-average for a person, and Alexei takes up enough space on his own. Kent wobbles and Alexei puts a hand on his thigh to steady him, relishing the thick, solid muscle he can feel there. Kent smells like sweat and whiskey and patchouli. Even with the night’s gaiety dampened somewhat by the intrusion of a history Alexei would have  _killed_  not to bring up, there’s still a slow simmer of  _want_ just under his skin. Kent Parson is still gorgeous. And Alexei knows the feel of him now, how his hips fit into Alexei’s palms and his head under Alexei’s chin, the way his muscles tense and flex as he sways to Taylor Swift, the strength of his fingers in Alexei’s hands.

Kent Parson is paying for the privilege of getting just about anything he wants out of this evening. Alexei knows, down to the pennies,  _exactly_  what Kent is paying, and for  _exactly_  what services. Alexei knew going in what all might be asked of him. And because it’s Kent Parson, even without knowing the man, he’d have been happy to give it.

But because it’s  _Kent_ , who climbs back into his seat and sighs and stares ahead like he’s got the next twenty-four hours planned out in his head and is apathetic to all of it, Alexei wants his services fully rendered. He wants.... He  _wants_.

Alexei parks in Kent’s designated parking space and turns off the car. Kent looks tired. Alexei doesn’t know what, or if, Kent wants.

“What time is your flight?” he asks. “To Vegas.”

Kent groans at the reminder and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Ten. In the morning.”

“You are taking Kit?”

Kent looks at him. “What?”

“Your cat. You are taking her to Vegas. Apartment is rental, yes?”

“Oh. Um. No. It’s my mom’s place. I bought it for her. Pre-season’s full of roadies and Kit gets lonely when I’m gone so much, so mom’s got her for the next couple of weeks. While I’m, you know.” He waves a hand. “Hockey.”

Alexei chuckles. “Yes, I know.”

“I still have to pack,” Kent says. “I've been here for two days, my shit's everywhere. Mom’s in Florida. She gets back tomorrow, after I’m gone.” A pause. “I’m gonna be so hungover at practice tomorrow. Fuck my life.”

“Kent, you are professional. Can skate through anything.”

Kent’s laugh is a cross between a guffaw and a snort. “Oh man, you have  _not_  met me.”

“Think I have, little bit.” Alexei turns in his seat--as much as he can--and tilts his head contemplatively at Kent. “I enjoyed tonight.”

“You know I know how much I’m paying you to say that, right?”

“You are paying escort agency for me to go with you, not to like it. I liked it.”

“Yeah? Which part?”

Two moments spring to Alexei’s mind: the first, how Kent had looked talking to Hannah at the bar, the both of them perched on the edges of their seats and gesticulating wildly. Kent’s eyes had been alight and his smile had grown and shrunk but never left his face, never been anything less than enthusiastic and genuine.

The second moment was the little shiver that had run through Kent when Alexei told him he was gold.

“My favorite part is Kent Parson’s bad singing,” Alexei says.

Kent gapes. “Fuck  _you_ , man!” he exclaims, and punches Alexei in the arm hard enough to make him grunt. “You’re the one who was begging me to sing in the first place!”

“Yes, I am regret for rest of my life.”

“Don’t you fucking chirp me, you--you Russian asshole.” Kent’s laughing, flushed pink. He fumbles for the door and swings it open. “Get the fuck out of my car.”

Alexei grins and gets out, locking the car doors with a click of a button and following Kent to the elevator. He puts a hand to Kent’s back to steady him. Kent leans into Alexei, flush against his side, and Alexei wraps his arm around Kent’s shoulders, instead.

At the door to Kent’s mother’s apartment, Kent digs through his pocket and pulls out his keys. “Whelp, this is me.”

“This is you,” Alexei agrees, and hands him the car keys. “Thank you for letting me drive your car. Is very nice. Smooth ride.”

“Well, it’s a rental, so don’t get attached.” Kent gets the front door open. Alexei drops his arm from around Kent. It’s cold without him.

Kent balks in the doorway and turns to face him, hands in his pockets as he leans against the wooden frame. “Can’t remember if I said so before, but, thanks. For coming with me. I know,” he says, and holds up a hand to stop Alexei from interjecting. “I know, I hired you. Or the agency hired you, whatever. But still. I know I wasn’t exactly the easiest to deal with, tonight, but you did. So, thanks.” Kent smiles, lopsided and worn, and Alexei makes a decision.

“Kent.” He braces an arm on the door frame above Kent, leaning in a little so Kent has to look up. Alexei knows that with his size, the move can be intimidating, but Kent doesn’t look unnerved, just curious, so Alexei licks his lips and waits for Kent’s eyes to catch on them before he continues. “You still have man with you who will blow you, if you ask. Let you do anything, if you ask.”

Kent’s flush deepens but he meets Alexei’s gaze, bold. “Because you think I play good hockey?”

Alexei leans in further. Kent’s face is so close, and Alexei breathes his words onto Kent’s lips. “Because I want you to.”


	4. Slow Motion Sparks

It’s a week after Kent’s high school reunion, 7:30am in the morning, and Alexei’s alarm is blaring. Rain or shine, late night or shitty hangover, he wakes up every morning to go for a swim at the rec center pool. The evening before was of the “late night” variety. Alexei groans at the shitty hangover that hits him before he’s even rolled over to grab his phone.

Once he’s silenced the alarm, he opens the NHL app and scrolls through the scores from the first round of preseason games.

 

VANCOUVER @ SAN JOSE - VAN 2,  **SJS 3**

PROVIDENCE @ DALLAS - **PVD 2** , DAL 1 (OT)

LAS VEGAS @ COLORADO -  **LV 4** , COL 0

 

Alexei grins.

After finishing his workout at the pool, he showers and walks home, stopping by the doughnut shop next door for coffee and a cruller on the way. He’s lived in the same one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Philadelphia for three years, and while it’s still not his ideal, he likes it. His bedroom window faces East and he gets sunlight first thing in the morning. It gets him out of bed even on mornings when he’s been up all night. There’s plenty of space in his living room for stretches and a set of weights, which is all the strength training he needs to supplement his cardio. He’s in shape. He’s in damn  _good_  shape. He likes taking his clothes off in front of clients for the first time, and seeing that little flick of tongue over lips and the way their eyes go dark and hot.

Kent hadn’t seen Alexei with his clothes off, but he had whispered “Fuck,” when Alexei had gone to his knees in the hallway, that night.

Alexei sips his coffee and looks down at his knees. He’s got sweats on to guard against New Jersey’s cool morning air, but there’s nothing to see; the bruises were gone after two days. He rubs his bare foot against the opposite shin and thinks about how it had felt to kneel at Kent Parson’s feet; the way Kent had cupped Alexei’s cheek and smeared his thumb across Alexei’s lips, getting them slick.

He thinks about the noise Kent had made when Alexei had touched him, rubbed him through the soft wool of his dress slacks, popped open the buttons and pushed up the tails of Kent’s shirt to kiss and bite at his stomach. Kent had kept quiet out of respect for his neighbors but his hands on Alexei’s head and shoulders hadn’t been shy. Especially not after Alexei had looked up and murmured, “If you want pull my hair, fuck my mouth, be a little rough, you can.”

Kent  _had_.

Back in the present, standing in his kitchen with a hot coffee in one hand and a cold doughnut in the other, Alexei looks down at the beginning of an erection in his sweatpants and lets out a long breath.

It’s not every day a man gets to have dinner with Kent Parson and then take him home and blow him ‘til his knees give.

Alexei puts down his coffee and doughnut and goes to take a cold shower.

\-- 

Two days later, Alexei gets an email from the agency titled “companion lunch date.”

Proper names of clients are never included in email communication between the agency and its escorts. There’s too much at stake--money and reputations, primarily--to include the personal information of important people in anything hackable, no matter how secure their email servers. When Alexei had gotten the initial booking with Kent, the agency had called him directly. The first thing Alexei’s dispatcher had said was, “You’re into hockey, right? We’ve got a request.”

There had been an assortment of particulars attached to the reunion date. This request has been sent by email and is clearly run-of-the-mill, save for the fact that Alexei has been asked for specifically. Either it’s a return client, or someone liked his photos and profile on the agency’s website and wants to give him a try.

Alexei pulls up NHL.com. The Las Vegas Aces are set to play the New York Rangers the day before the client has requested to meet him.

He sends a confirmation email to the agency and goes to start his weekend laundry.

\-- 

The Aces lose to the Rangers, 2-1 in OT. It’s an awfully close game. Alexei doesn’t get to watch a single minute of it online or on TV, because he’s too busy pretending to be incompetent at English for a return client who gets his satisfaction in life from laughing at Alexei’s pronunciation of anything starting with a “w.”

Alexei thanks God that there’s not a single “w” in the primary phrases he uses when alone with this client, which are “Fuck me,” “Harder,” “You feel so big in me,” and “I’m coming.”

When he meets Kent the next afternoon--and he knows it’s Kent even before he gets there, who else would meet him at a dive bar in Hell’s Kitchen where the main attraction is a wall covered in confiscated fake IDs?--Kent takes one look at him and says, “You look like shit.”

Alexei tries not to make any noise that would indicated annoyance as he pulls off his rain-soaked coat. He tosses it into the booth and slides in after. “It’s raining. I forgot umbrella, I’m wet.”

“No, I mean you look wrecked. Late night?”

Alexei tries to think of a delicate way to deflect that and comes up short. Kent knows this is a paid date, but the point of it is to maintain the illusion that it’s not. So instead of trying to be suave, and with all the gracelessness of a truck making a hard U-turn on a highway, Alexei asks, “How was your game?”

Kent grins and says, “What, you mean you haven’t already stalked my penalty minutes on NHL.com? Actually, give me your phone. I’ve got a bet with myself you’ve got the NHL app and get more notifications on the Aces than the Falcs.”

Two weeks ago, he’d have been dead wrong. Now, Kent smirks when he opens the app and immediately gets a flood of Aces updates.

“I already had app,” Alexei says in his defense. “If you are both winner and loser of your bet, who gets money?”

Kent just laughs and hands the phone back. “Shit, I don’t know. Be lame to pay myself. How ‘bout I buy you a drink?”

Cold rainwater is still dripping from Alexei’s hair and down his shirt collar, his jeans feel tacky where the denim sticks to his skin, and he has a crick in his neck from having his head shoved into a pillow too heard last night. But Kent’s holding out the menu, smiling, like he didn’t get that bruise on his jaw from a hard check to the boards in the final minutes of a game his team lost.

Alexei takes the menu. “Where are you playing next?”

“You don’t have my game schedule memorized?” Kent teases.

Alexei raises an eyebrow, says, “Yes,” and looks back down at the menu. “Tell me anyway.”

Three hours pass. Alexei finishes two beers, Kent three. They each order a burger and then a plate of cheese sticks and onion rings to share between them. Kent talks about the Aces’ training, their games so far, how they’re preparing for the other teams they’ll play this week and the next. Alexei talks about his predictions for Providence, what he’s heard about other teams’ training and what he thinks of it. They compare notes about the rookies from this year’s draft, the free agents and who’s signed them on, and what effect they think it’ll have on the teams. They get into a thirty minute argument about who’ll go to the Eastern Conference playoffs, because while Kent thinks the Falcs’ have a good shot, he disagrees  _vehemently_  that the Falcs’ opponents will be the New Jersey Devils.

They talk hockey and almost nothing else.

Alexei loves it.

“Look,” Kent is saying. “Look, I agree with you, a strong goalie can make the difference even if team’s defense is racking up shots against, but if they can’t keep puck possession long enough to make enough shots  _for_ , it doesn’t--”

“Devil’s defense is stronger this year, you not watching them in preseason? Shots against much lower, and if they can make time in possession count with good  _control_ \--”

“I watch literally  _everyone_  in preseason, do you know how much tape I’ve sat through--”

“Then you see their defense, have changed entire starting line and given Zacha the C, he’s leading capable defensive team--”

“You--” Kent makes a frustrated wave of one hand and uses his other to point a cheese stick at Alexei. “I disagree on a  _fundamental level_  with your assessment,” he says, and then bites into the cheese stick with such ferocity that Alexei starts laughing.

“Agree to disagree?” he suggests.

“No, you are fucking  _wrong_ \--” But when Alexei keeps laughing, he groans and says, “Fine, yes, goddamn it.”

Alexei folds his arms on the table and puts his head in them, taking deep breaths to make the laughing fit stop.

“What position did you play?” Kent asks.

Amusement gone, Alexei looks up. Kent winces. “Shit. Sorry. You said you didn’t want to talk about it. I’m a mood-killer.” He pushes the nearly empty plate of fried food across the table. “Eat an onion ring and forget I asked.”

Alexei deliberates. There are certain things that he just  _can’t_  think about--the softness of his unworn Washington Capitals jersey in his hands as he pulled it from its box; his mother crying at his hospital bedside after the doctors delivered the devastating news; the last time he’d smelled fresh rink ice. (He’d been 19. He hasn’t gone near it since.)

Kent looks bothered at having thoughtlessly brought it up. But with Kent, here, Alexei thinks he can speak of it a little. “It’s all right. I was d-man.”

“Yeah, you look it.” Kent’s voice is too casual, like he’s treading on new ice while wearing flip-flops and taking it slow so he doesn’t misstep. “Were you this big at eighteen?”

“No. Bigger. Top weight was 245 pounds.”

“Shit,” Kent says. “Shit, that fucker Shawn was right, you’d have gone right through me.”

“Not  _right_  through you. Just make you very flat.” Alexei puts his hands close together. “Like pancake.”

Kent laughs, rubbing at his jaw. “Yeah, that’s what I’d need, getting my face mashed in again. I’m one of maybe five guys on the team who hasn’t gotten his nose broken yet. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Even if broken, I still like your nose,” Alexei tells him. He lets his tone go soft, and leans forward to stroke a finger along the bruise on Kent’s skin. He’s got just a hint of stubble and it scratches along Alexei’s fingertips like sparks. “Still like you with mashed face.”

Kent’s breath catches and his gaze skitters over their empty plates and out across the noisy bar. Alexei senses he’s crossed a line. Immediately he drops his hand and leans out of Kent’s space. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be, I--fuck.” He seems to forcibly stop himself from searching the crowd for curious eyes and focus back on Alexei. “It’s not you, it’s--it’s my shit. This is why I came out, so I didn’t have to keep looking over my shoulder every time I was out with a guy.”

_You’re not out with a guy_ , Alexei thinks.  _You’re out with an escort._  But he knows better than to voice this, at least for now. “You want to protect your privacy,” he says. “There is nothing wrong with that.”

“I’m honestly shocked that the only photo of me at my reunion is that selfie I took with Hannah,” Kent continues. “I was positive there’d be grainy camera photos up on the gossip sites by noon the next day.”

“Maybe you are lucky.”

A loud snort tells Alexei what Kent thinks of that. “In hockey, maybe. Literally nowhere else.” He looks around the restaurant. “You wanna get out of here?”

Five minutes ago, Alexei would have said yes without hesitation. Kent’s wearing a tight black t-shirt under his unbuttoned flannel and Alexei wants to peel it off him. Alexei wants bruises on his knees again, Kent’s fingers tight in his hair. He remembers the feel of Kent’s body, how he tasted, his strangled little grunt and the tension in his thighs when he came. Alexei wants them to go to that motel around the corner and get a room, to crowd Kent up against a bedroom door and whisper, “Anything you want,” and then see how much he can get.

Five minutes ago, Kent had been red-cheeked with beer, good food, and heated talk about hockey. Right this moment, Alexei doesn’t like the weary expression on Kent’s face as he looks out through the windows at the cold, pouring rain.

“We can go, if you want,” Alexei says. “But I’m okay to stay. We can talk more.”

Kent scrunches his nose in disbelief. “We’ve been sitting here picking apart the entire NHL roster for--” He checks his watch. “--three and a half hours. You’re telling me you’re not sick of it?”

“Why am I get sick of it?”

“Everyone does,” Kent says, and then clenches his teeth like he didn’t mean for that to come out.

Alexei shrugs and reaches for his unfinished beer. “If you want to leave, we can leave. You are still wrong about Eastern Conference playoffs and New Jersey Devils.”

The way Kent’s jaw twitches is hilarious. “Are you sure you want to into that again, Mashkov? Are you  _absolutely_  sure?”

“Quality of goalie determines entire game.”

“Okay, yes, but also no, and I'm gonna explain to you _in detail_ exactly why.”

Halfway through their argument, Kent’s foot finds Alexei’s under the table and hooks around his ankle. Alexei pulls his feet together to keep him there, relishing that he can feel every little twitch and jerk of Kent’s exuberant conversation through that small point of contact.

They stay like that for the rest of the afternoon.


	5. Kiss Me With Adventure

It’s still raining when they leave the bar. The sky has gone dark and the streets and buildings are smeared with watercolor neon edged in silver. Cabs and adventurous drivers fill the roads, pedestrians flood the sidewalks. Alexei shares Kent’s umbrella and they’re both too big to fit even half themselves under it at the same time. They’re getting drenched but they don’t care. Kent is holding the umbrella with one hand, his other wrapped firmly around Alexei’s waist. Alexei has slung one arm over Kent’s shoulders and he keeps trying to make Kent laugh again so he can feel those lovely shoulders shake.

Because of the shared umbrella, their steps are a bit clumsy. But there’s no uncertainty about the direction where they’re headed. With the Aces in town, there’s no telling if any hopeful journalists will be camping out around Kent’s hotel. It’s why Kent has met him in such a small corner of New York, and why they’re headed in the direction they are now.

Alexei can see the neon block letters in the distance: Motel.

An hour ago, Kent had checked the time and said, “You wanna just get dinner here, too?” to which Alexei had replied carefully, “It is your time,” by which he’d meant, “You’re the client, it’s your money we’re spending.”

“Yeah,” Kent had replied, grinning lopsidedly. “I’m in the NHL, didn’t you know? I’m fucking loaded. So, you hungry?”

Alexei had still had Kent’s foot between his. He hadn’t tried to touch Kent again above the table, but below it, hidden in shadow, Kent was letting him get away with plenty.  Earlier, Alexei had gotten bold enough to slip off his shoe and drag his toes up the inside of Kent’s leg, all the way from ankle to knee. Kent had stuttered mid-speech, licked his lips, and blushed, but he hadn’t asked for Alexei to stop. They’d gone right back to discussing the coaching changes in the Western Conference.

So when Kent had asked if he was hungry, Alexei had run his gaze over Kent’s body and squeezed Kent’s foot between his. “I’m starving,” he had replied, and ordered a steak to prove it.

They arrive at the motel. It’s not quite old but not new either, and has a front desk like a renovated concessions counter. Kent ducks into the bathroom--mostly to hide his face but also to pee--while Alexei gets a room. They take the shaky elevator to the third floor and get turned around finding 308 because the progression of room numbers makes zero sense. Kent’s pupils have been dilated and his ears pink since the elevator, but he keeps his hands to himself while Alexei unlocks the door. (With a real key. It nearly gets stuck.)

It takes a second for Alexei to find the light and flick it on. The room’s cramped interior makes him feel broader and taller than usual.

Kent whistles. “Holy shit. I think this place could fit in my bathroom at home.”

Alexei surveys the low bed, squat dresser, and small TV that was probably bought before either of them graduated high school. All of it is crammed into what little floor space is available, with just enough room between each piece for one person to squeeze by sideways. The windows, at least, are wide and tall, and have new curtains. There’s a radiator under one of them, so close to the bed that Alexei worries turning it on will catch something on fire.

“Jesus,” Kent continues. “Are both of us even going to fit on that bed?”

Alexei looks at him and smiles. “We don’t know until we try.”

“Yeah.” Kent licks his lips, then bites them, then inhales deeply and blows it out. “Right.” He’s acting jittery, like his blood is buzzing with something he can’t shake.

Alexei’s smile fades. “We don’t have to be here, if you don’t want,” he says gently. He wants to pet Kent’s hair, rub his shoulder, calm him down, but he also doesn’t want to do anything unwelcome.

Kent’s reply is immediate and emphatic. “I do.” He rounds on Alexei. “If you think I haven’t thought, every day for the last two weeks, about you going down on me or that fucking comment about letting me come on your face because I play beautiful hockey, you’re out of your goddamn mind. Do you have any idea what kind of hell my preseason has been so far? I’ve been crammed into buses, planes, locker rooms, and bullpens with twenty other guys for fourteen days straight, and if anyone so much as laughs with a Russian accent, I have to put something over my crotch and think about that video I accidentally watched about baby chicks being ground up for nuggets.”

Alexei realizes his mouth is open and he shuts it. “I don’t know how laugh with Russian accent.”

“Oh, fuck you, Mashkov,” Kent says, but Alexei’s cheekiness is making him smile. “You’ve been flirting with me for five straight hours. You gonna back that shit up or what?”

Alexei closes the distance between them. It puts Kent in his shadow. Kent looks up at him, still buzzing with that weird energy, but his gaze is hot, fearless. Alexei cups his chin and tilts it up and to the side, so he can lean down and put his mouth on the awful bruise. It’s warm and scratchy with stubble.

Kent makes a soft, wanting sound. Alexei presses wet, sucking kisses up Kent’s jaw, and when he reaches the ear, he bites, just gently.

“Fuck,” Kent breathes. His hands have gone to Alexei’s biceps and he’s digging his fingers in. “Fuck, do you--can you kiss me? Is that allowed?”

“Only if you not mind kiss having Russian accent.”

“What’s that even--Oh, no, don’t you fucking chirp me, not when I’m this horny. Mashkov, I swear to god—”

Alexei shuts him up.

Kent kisses like he wants everything but he’s not sure how much he’s allowed to have. He kisses with heat and caution, mouth open and greedy but not aggressive; just wanting. Alexei wets Kent’s lips with his tongue, waits for Kent to make an impatient sound before diving deep. Kent tastes like beer and fried cheese. He tastes like an afternoon of easy smiles and belly-deep laughter. Alexei cups Kent’s jaw with both hands and drinks that in.

Kent’s hands, meanwhile, have been busy. They’ve left Alexei’s arms and are tugging at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over Alexei’s hips and abdomen and stroking the skin they find. Alexei purrs in satisfaction and presses his hips into Kent.

Kent breaks the kiss. “Aw, fuck. Yeah, that’s it.” He grabs Alexei by the belt loops and grinds into him. “Can we get on the bed?”

Alexei kisses his nose. “Walk me there, solnyško.”

“Back with the pet names, huh?” Kent’s already pushing him backwards in the direction of the bed. They reach it in two steps and Alexei lets the mattress knock his legs out from under him. He pulls Kent down with him, eliciting a mild yelp. Over a hundred pounds of solid hockey player fall on top of Alexei. Kent’s heavier than he looks, muscle making up for height. He feels incredible. Alexei glides his hands up under Kent’s t-shirt and across his back, relishing the silken shift of skin across muscle and bone, so hard and tight that it has Alexei moaning and lifting his head to nip at Kent’s lips in pursuit of another kiss. Kent regains his balance atop Alexei and lets his legs fall open, straddling him. He rolls his hips, and Alexei moans again at Kent’s cock against his.

“You need be naked,” Alexei growls. He yanks the t-shirt up until Kent lets him pull it off, and then runs his hands up Kent’s chest. He has to bite his lip against a moan. Kent’s gorgeous on top of him, golden skin already rosy with a full-body blush and silky with rainwater and the beginnings of a sweat. Grey eyes watch Alexei as he touches his fill.

“You’re really hard up for me, aren’t you?” Kent says, his voice too quiet and his smile too radiant for it to be a chirp. “That wasn’t just a line, about blowing me in my car.”

“I’m never joke about getting cum on leather seats.”

Kent laughs so loud that Alexei’s sure the whole floor hears him. “I can make that happen, you know. I’ll call the first car rental place that comes up on Google and get the gaudiest sports model they’ve got, just so you can fuck me senseless in the back seat.” He grins down at Alexei. “Just say the word.”

Looking up at Kent, bright-eyed and giddy and easily offering up whatever Alexei wants, Alexei feels something warm and dangerous happen in his chest. It feels like a sunrise on a frozen pond and the ear-popping pressure of a jumbo jet mid-takeoff.

Alexei grips Kent’s thighs and carefully but quickly dumps him sideways so he can roll on top of him. Kent grunts in surprise, then groans and arches when Alexei grinds down against him. “You still not naked, solnyško.” He reaches down to tug open the buttons and zipper on Kent’s jeans.

“Neither are you.” Kent’s hands fly up. “Why are you wearing a fucking button-up to a dive bar date, anyway?”

Alexei gets Kent’s jeans and boxers down off his hips and Kent kicks them off all the way. Kent wrestles Alexei’s shirt off, hindered by the fact that Alexei won’t stop kissing him. Eventually Alexei shucks his own pants, then his briefs. He can’t help but shudder in bliss at the first touch of full skin on skin.

Kent has long since abandoned civility in his kisses. His hands touch with single-mindedness, greedy for every bit of Alexei they can reach, although when Alexei braces his knees between Kent’s thighs and starts to slowly rut against him, Kent quickly grabs his ass.

Except for the not-so-distant din of city life and the relentless rain hammering the windows, the only noise in their room is the angry creak of the bed springs and their own harsh panting. There might be conversations to be heard through the walls, water in the pipes, maybe the jarring thud of a can of Pepsi being dispensed from the vending machine down the hall. Alexei can’t hear any of it. He’s too caught up in kissing the line of Kent’s throat. Kent’s got one hand on the nape of Alexei’s neck and the other squeezing fingerprint bruises into Alexei’s ass as they move together.

It feels tantric, almost, or it would if Alexei wasn’t burning so badly from the divine sensation of every inch of Kent, willingly taking every bit of spine-tingling pleasure Alexei can give.

“Ah-ha, fuck,” Kent breathes, sounding winded and wrecked. “You gotta--I need to come. God, I need to come. Move faster.” His fingers tighten and he wraps a leg around Alexei’s, hips jerking up. Alexei grunts at the sudden shock of elevated pleasure and gives him a kiss that’s half bite.

“Alexei, come on.”

“I like it you saying my name,” Alexei growls, and braces one elbow on the bed so he can get his other hand between them and around their dicks.

“Yeah? Ah, yeah, like that. Alexei, yes.”

It gets frantic. Kent moans and thrusts up to meet Alexei’s grip. Legs and hands like steel pull Alexei to the rhythm Kent wants. Kent feels like an earthquake under him, soft earth coiling with power, so raw and beautiful.

Making Kent tense, shudder, and come makes Alexei feel a bit like God.

Kent has barely caught his breath before he’s reaching between them to tug on Alexei’s dick. “You next,” he says, and keeps his gaze on Alexei so that Alexei has to keep watching him until the moment when the force of orgasm shuts his eyes.

They find out several minutes later that there is no trashcan. Alexei stands naked in the middle of the room, nasty wad of cum-covered tissues in hand, frowning more and more deeply the clearer it becomes that there’s nowhere to put it.

Kent laughs at him from his messy spread-eagled position on the bed. There’s a wad of tissues on the other edge of bed from his own cleanup job, but Alexei can still see thin streaks of come on his stomach. Kent says, “Just wrap it in more tissues and put it on the dresser. We’ll toss it later. Get your ass back here, I’m not done with the afterglow cuddling.”

It takes several tissues wrapped around the mess before Alexei will set it on the dresser. It’s cool in the room and feels colder on sweaty skin; he has no objection to returning to the bed with Kent. The bedsheets are thin but generous. Kent stretches and hums as he pulls Alexei to him, pressing a few sloppy kisses to Alexei’s jaw before settling down on his chest. Alexei thinks Kent is enjoying the novelty of kissing him, now that he knows he’s allowed.

Alexei likes the novelty of lying in a motel bed next to a cum-stained man and not having some part of him counting down the minutes until he can be alone.

Although the motel room doesn’t have a trashcan or decent floor space, it does have a digital clock on the end table on his side of the bed. He glances over to check the time. He’s been with Kent for over six hours now.

From under Alexei’s chin, Kent says, “You’re not subtle.” He doesn’t sound offended. “Don’t worry, I know how long it’s been. I’m not gonna stiff you.”

“I not think that.”

“You don’t mind, do you? That I’ve monopolized you all day. If you’ve got shit to do, grocery shopping or whatever... other people to see... I understand. You can just tell me to fuck off.” Kent’s tracing nonsensical shapes on Alexei’s skin. The words could be self-pitying but he doesn’t sound it.

Alexei nearly chirps him; nearly makes some softball crack about needing to be away from someone with such a low opinion of the Jersey Devils, or not wanting to be seen with a guy who drinks Miller Light when there’s far better on tap. Something friendly, and just that. Something that doesn’t coincide with how it feels to have Kent in his arms, smelling of beer and bar smoke, loose-limbed and completely fucked out, his stubble scratching uncomfortably on Alexei’s skin and his body already making Alexei a little too hot. How Kent’s heartbeat feels against Alexei’s side.

“I don't mind.” Alexei brushes his fingers through Kent’s sweat-sticky hair, kisses his brow, and listens to the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for mistakes; it's late af. Feel free to point them out.


	6. Bad Self Portraits

The next morning, Alexei wakes up in his apartment at 7:30am for his regular swim at the rec center. Somewhere in New York City, Kent gets on a bus to Ohio to play the Blue Jackets later that evening.

Miracle of miracles, Alexei has nothing scheduled for this particular Sunday. So when the evening rolls around, he goes online to watch the Aces vs Blue Jackets game live. NHL.com’s annual subscription for live broadcasts of in-progress hockey games is one of the few indulgences he allows himself. It makes it easier watch full games even after they’ve happened, since his schedule is often too unpredictable for him to count on catching TV broadcasts.

With his laptop on his kitchen counter, Alexei cooks dinner while keeping an eye on the game. The Aces score in the first five minutes, and then again near the end of the first period. Once Alexei is done with his prep work and has put the chicken and vegetables on the stove to simmer, he gets a beer and leans against the counter to focus on the game.

Kent started the first period and he starts the second as well. His playing is fierce but not dirty, although he does get a two minute penalty for stick interference. He’s shown sitting in the box with his helmet off and a water bottle in one hand, looking relaxed and unperturbed. When Columbus’s power play ends and Kent goes back in the game, he looks up at the camera focused on him and winks before skating away.

“Cocky fucker,” Alexei says in Russian, and vows to say it to Kent’s face sometime. He’ll say it sweetly, pretend it’s another nickname like  _solnyško._  He thinks that hearing the real meaning will make Kent laugh, and maybe punch him in the arm again. Alexei likes it when Kent gets playfully physical. The next time they’re out, he’ll see if he can goad Kent into trying to pull him into a headlock. Does Kent Parson put people in headlocks? He’s nearly a head shorter than Alexei. It’d be hilarious to see him try.

Alexei realizes what he’s thinking and goes still. He shouldn’t be imagining his next booking with Kent. Shouldn’t be  _assuming_  he’ll have another booking with Kent. It’s likely, of course, but it shouldn’t occupy his thoughts.

‘ _Back with the pet names, huh_?’ Kent had been grinning, like he didn’t mind. ‘ _Alexei, come on. ...Yeah, like that. Alexei, yes_.’

Alexei had made so much money yesterday. Even with the agency taking its usual twenty percent, he’d come back with enough cash to pay that month’s rent and then some. Alexei didn’t come cheap and Kent had racked up a full six hours of companion time. They’d had to stop at an ATM because Kent hadn’t brought enough $100s with him to pay the final fee. Alexei had waited half a block away and made them duck into a fenced-off parking lot so it wasn’t blatantly obvious that Kent was dropping over a thousand dollars in cash on some “male companionship.”

“Oh, and hey,” Kent had added, pulling out his phone. “I know you know this already, but we’re playing the Falcs in a week. You said they were going wipe the floor with us. You wanna see that in person? I can probably get you tickets if I beg really hard and hit up a few connections.”

He’d sounded hopeful. Alexei had considered it for a moment: being back in a rink, smelling the ice, hearing the sharp crack of sticks against a puck, watching Kent and the Falconers battle for possession, to be so close to the game but cut off from being  _in it_ —

Not to mention the risk if someone associated them. Alexei didn’t want to be what ended Kent’s career.

“No, thank you. I’m okay. Trip is too far, anyway.”

Kent’s mouth had pursed like he was sifting through possible arguments, but ultimately he dropped it. Alexei was thankful. “Cool. If you change your mind, though, let me know?”

“How?” Neither of them had the other’s number. Alexei didn’t give out personal information to clients. Not even Kent could be the exception.

Kent had nearly spoken and then stopped. “Well, shit.” He laughed. “I’ll, um, call the agency?”

“Agency won’t forward information or gifts, Kent. They can’t. They don’t have my address. Or bank information. Is why all cash. You pay me, I log time, I forward dispatcher’s fee to them.” Any Google search would provide this information. There hadn’t been any reason for Alexei to explain it to Kent, aside from dimming the glow in his eyes. Alexei couldn’t pretend it made him feel good to see that.

“Oh.” Kent’s smile had stayed on but it was decidedly less happy. “Well. Guess I’ll see you when I see you, then.” He’d stuck his free hand into his pocket and glanced out into the busy street. “I’m gonna get a taxi back to the hotel. You gonna be okay getting home?”

Alexei’d had a long train ride and then a bus ride to look forward to. “I’m fine.” He’d made himself smile, because Kent had been looking unhappy at leaving things so loose-ended, and Alexei hadn’t wanted to leave it that way, either. “Good luck in game tomorrow,  _solnyško_.”

The pet name had softened Kent’s fake smile into a real one, just as Alexei had known it would. “Take care of yourself, Alexei.”

‘ _I like it you saying my name.’_

On Alexei’s computer, the Columbus Blue Jackets make their first goal at the end of the second period. It puts the game at 2-1, Aces.

At the start of the third period, the Blue Jackets score again. With the game tied, the Aces increase their aggression on the offence and guard their goal like bears at a den.

It almost takes them into overtime. And then, a minute before the end of the third, the Blue Jackets score again. The Aces don’t make up the point, and the game ends 3-2, Blue Jackets.

“Damn,” Alexei mutters as he watches as the players and the entire Blue Jackets fanbase crammed into Nationwide Arena celebrate. First the Rangers, now the Blue Jackets, and both games lost by a single point. It’s still just pre-season, but that doesn’t mean the games aren’t important.

Kent smiles and graciously shakes the hands of the Blue Jackets and their coaches. He and the Aces skate off the ice. Alexei watches the boys patting each other on the shoulders, heads, backs. Kent pulls his helmet off and gets his hair ruffled by the goalie. Alexei was never in the NHL but he remembers that from his Junior League; the camaraderie of the team.

Now that the game against the Blue Jackets is done, the Aces have two days to get ready to play the Providence Falconers on Wednesday.

Alexei’s online stream continues; the press catches up with the Blue Jackets’ captain and coach. Its contents are typical; discussion of the win, the team’s plans for their upcoming game against St. Louis, and what about their training helped them beat the Aces. Alexei keeps half an ear on it while he check is his chicken and deems it cooked.

The Aces interview with Kent and the team’s alternate captain, Brian Choi, starts while Alexei is plating his food and heating up some frozen vegetables in the microwave.

“We came out and created a lot of offensive opportunities,” Kent says in response to yet another question about the Aces’ strategy that night. “It’s been the key to our success, that we’re very cohesive and work off each other to make those opportunities count.”

A reporter’s voice from off-screen asks, “What mistakes do you think lead to the loss in New York, and now in Columbus?”

Choi responds. “It’s always a matter of—Look, it’s pre-season. This is the time when we see what everyone’s been working on, how everyone’s playing. This isn’t our time to win, it’s our time to let our guys on the ice.”

Kent nods. “We’ve got some strong lines this year, some good new starting forwards, and I think that once the season kicks off, you’ll really see what they can do.”

Kent looks at the reporters whose mics are shoved in his face. “I think maybe we’ve got time for one more?”

“Kent!”

“Yeah, go.”

“Can you comment on the leaked photos of your date last night in New York?”

Alexei freezes. Kent’s expression goes completely blank. “I—what?”

Choi picks the reporter out of the gathering and gives the man a hard stare. “That’s got nothing to do with the game. Next ques—”

"Nah, it’s fine." Kent stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "They’ll just ask again. The answer is, no, I can’t comment. I just got off the ice. If there’s pictures of me in New York, I haven’t seen them. I don’t even know what this is about. Let’s get back to hockey for now, okay? That’s what we’re here to talk about.”

The questions do return to hockey. The interview is over two minutes later. Alexei remembers to get his vegetables out of the microwave. He didn’t leave them in long enough and they’re still cold, but he drains them and dumps them on his plate, anyway.

 _Leaked photos_.

He opens a tab on his web browser and searches “Kent Parson New York date.”

Results are all too easy to find. There’s a series of saved Snapchat photos, sent from one phone and apparently saved and posted by another. Several gossip sites have already put the photos in order of progression and added commentary.

He hates the idea of adding to the traffic of a gossip site, especially one discussing Kent’s personal life, but he has to know. He clicks the first link that comes up.

_NHL star Kent Parson’s hot date in NYC!_

Alexei is already sick of this. He skips reading the article and focuses on the pictures. They’re from inside the bar, mildly grainy due to poor lighting, and were definitely taken by a fan. The angle is from behind Alexei, so there’s nothing to see but the back of his head, but Kent is in full view.

There are five photos in total.

The caption across the first photo says,  _holy shit_.  _dude tell me im not lit and thats for real kvp_

The second is slightly closer, as though the photographer moved seats at the bar to get a better look. _ITS KVP DUDE HOLY SHIT._

On the third:  _dunno, i cant see his face. dude’s tall af, tho, got an accent, maybe a hockey friend? not aces._

Then, the fourth, which is blurrier than the rest but clearly shows Alexei’s fingers caressing Kent’s face.  _FUC KING H OLY SHIT BRO ITS A FUKCING DATE_

The last photo is just Kent laughing.  _this tall dude keeps making him laugh. :) our bro’s havin a good time. guess he needs it after that game yesterday, u see that shit?_

Alexei takes a long, deep breath and wills his heart to stop pounding. ‘Tall man with accent who likes hockey’ isn’t enough information for someone to track him down.

Scrolling back up, he stops on the photo of himself gently touching the bruise on Kent’s jaw. Kent’s still smiling in the photo, so Alexei knows it was taken in the split second before paranoia had kicked in and Kent had checked the bar for anyone watching. It’s ironic in the worst way that Kent’s fears had been completely justified.

He clicks through a few more websites. Reads the articles this time. Tries to see if anyone has any clues about the identity of Kent’s mystery date. There’s a lot of speculation but no solid leads. And nobody seems to think, for even a minute, that Kent is paying his date to be there with him.

Kent is out to the public. People know he’s gay. But there’s no telling what kind of media circus would erupt if someone found out Kent’s date was an escort. Kent has to know that even better than Alexei does. So if Kent was ever considering hiring Alexei again, this has to have made up his mind quite nicely.

It was good while it lasted. For the two dates that Alexei had Kent, it was good, and he’s glad.

He takes his dinner and laptop into the living room, and switches from NHL.com to Netflix.

\--

Monday is shit. He has two dates in a row, one for an early brunch and another for dinner and dancing. The brunch runs late and Alexei barely has time to go home, shower off the smell of his client’s perfume, and change into something less church-ready and more Hollywood-gigolo. The second date starts at a restaurant and moves to a strip club—a male strip club. Alexei isn’t the only other man in the party of ten, although the majority are straight women. When Alexei admits to being bisexual, however, his date—and the other women—insist on buying him a lap dance. And then another. Then they want to see him slip cash into a guy’s G-string. The night culminates with Alexei’s date trying to get one of the other men in their party to make out with Alexei so she can make out with him afterwards. She fails. The only person Alexei has to make out with is her, in the back seat of a taxi on the way to her apartment. She doesn’t invite him inside, although she does nearly “forget” to pay him. He grinds his teeth the whole ride back.

And just because he comes home, masturbates furiously, and comes  _twice_  from the collective sexual frustration of that evening doesn’t mean he’d enjoyed having his sexuality toted out as part of the night’s entertainment.

His brunch hadn’t exactly been fun, either. The client’s family had congratulated him on his country’s firm stance against homosexuality and gay marriage.

Alexei had only agreed to stay as long as he had because it had ended with the client having to pay through the nose for his time. She’d smiled and kissed him on the cheek before he’d left, like it was perfectly alright that she’d laughed and whole-heartedly supported everything her family said.

So Alexei goes to bed tired and angry. The frustration lingers all Tuesday morning, resulting in one of the hardest workouts he’s subjected himself to in a while. His knee even complains. This is dangerous, considering how he definitely  _can’t_  afford another intensive round of physical therapy. Escort work doesn't come with provided benefits, and the insurance he pays for out of pocket certainly doesn't extend to costly therapy for old sports-related injuries.

Despite having a hangover from the alcohol and the foul mood, Alexei gets to lunchtime wishing he had some kind of date lined up to distract him. Because once he’s swam, showered, gotten breakfast, come home, done a few reps with the weights, stretched, and flipped on the TV so he has background noise while he folds his laundry, he’s left with time to think.

His thoughts can start anywhere, but they inevitably migrate back to Kent Parson.

Alexei has been keeping an eye on the gossip pages since the interview in Ohio. Gossip, debate, and speculation have continued on various forums and official sites, but as of Alexei’s Tuesday afternoon, nothing has been confirmed. Kent hasn’t made any official statements and the press haven’t had the chance to bother him about it.

Although, in stalking the information on Kent, Alexei has discovered multiple references to Kent’s various social media platforms, as the press and the fans tear apart the contents of Kent’s Twitter and Instagram feeds in search of the Mystery Date.

By 1pm, Alexei has downloaded and signed up for Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat for the first time in his life.

What he discovers is that Kent is allergic to capitalization, and uses his Instagram feed to post pictures that are either breathtaking views of sunsets in various places, or  _the most inane_  things he can find.

From New York, there is a photo of the sunset as seen from Kent’s hotel. Immediately after, a pigeon taking a shit on a stop sign. For Ohio, streaks of  russet and gold reflecting on the Nationwide Arena where the Aces and Blue Jackets had played. Next, an early-morning photo of—Alexei squints, disbelieving—what looks like an entire field of unpainted, upright concrete corn cobs as big as he is.

Alexei ‘likes’ several photos and tweets, safe in the knowledge that his mundane username will get lost in the hundreds of others that follow Kent. He discovers that the cat he’d met before their first date in New York has her own Instagram account. Moreover, Kit has nearly as many followers as  _Kent_.

Alexei is laughing to himself over one of the sillier photos of the cat getting herself lodged in various cramped spaces around Kent’s Las Vegas apartment when he abruptly notices that the room is going dark as the sun slides down in the sky. It’s already 5pm. Somehow, he’s spent three hours going through all of Kent’s social media feeds.

He puts the phone aside and goes to clean his bathroom.

When he comes back, there’s an Instagram notification waiting. Kent has posted a new photo: fluffy, sunlit clouds at 10,000 feet, the wing of a private jet in the foreground.

_Potseluy solntsa._

The comments section is full of question marks and exclamations of confusion, in addition to some attempts at translation.

Alexei stares at the caption, the photo, and Kent’s face in his profile avatar.

 _Potseluy solntsa._ Kiss the sun.

Kent doesn’t know a single bit of Russian. He’s got Russian teammates, but never in the history of his social media feeds (and Alexei has fucking looked, all day) has Kent ever used Russian text. Kent’s seen Alexei’s phone. He knows the only media feeds Alexei follows are hockey-related.

Alexei doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with this.

_“I know you know this already, but we’re playing the Falcs in a week. You said they were going wipe the floor with us. You wanna see that in person?_

Alexei hasn’t been inside a hockey rink since he was nineteen. He hasn’t been on ice, period, since he was eighteen. He watches hockey games, checks the players’ stats, watches interviews and press conferences, and every time he’s in NYC for Christmas or New Years and has to go by Rockefeller Center, he stops and watches the parade of skaters gliding across the rink while his heart gets caught in his throat and his damaged knee twinges in the cold.

He swims because his knee can’t take the continuous impact of running. He lives in America because it reminds him of his dream but not the day it shattered. He obsesses over the NHL because he can’t stay away from hockey, but he never attends the games because he’s afraid of what it’ll feel like, to be so close to the game but cut off from it. The distance between the fans and the game is less than an inch of Plexiglass, but the distance between the world of the spectators and the gladiators who face off in battle—it’s a rift in dimension.

Years back, when he’d been young and hopeful still, he’d tried to let watching be enough. He’d received his jersey, and then the news, and he’d tried to go back to his old rink and watch his old team play. Being in the stands, cheering the team on, yelling about penalties and foul plays and referee calls; he’d tried to let it be enough.

His team had won. The players had skated off the ice still shouting and patting each other in celebration, while the fans had gotten up and headed home. Alexei had stayed in the stands until they emptied. He’d stared at the ice, replaying the game in his head, waiting to feel okay. Waiting to feel satisfied, waiting for something inside him to say, ‘Yes, this is enough.’

Instead he’d put his head between his knees and cried, alone in the empty seats. When he’d gotten home, he’d burned the jersey.

He hasn’t gone back to the ice—any ice—since.

Kent Parson is about as close to the ice as Alexei can get, short of breaking himself on it all over again.

 _Potseluy solntsa._ What is he supposed to do with that?

\--

Nine PM on that same Tuesday finds Alexei on an overnight bus to Providence.

While he stares out the window at the passing countryside, eating a bag of chips he got at the gas station and turning up the music on his headphones to drown out the crying baby in the seat behind him, he wonders what the hell has possessed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You think I'm joking about the concrete corn. I am not. It is located in Dublin, Ohio, and you can Google it.  
> Ohio is weird.


	7. Waves Hit My Head

Alexei’s bus gets into Providence at five in the morning. He and the other travel-weary passengers stumble out into the dimly-lit terminal and gather their luggage. Alexei only has an overnight bag; no need for anything else.

The hotels in the area are either booked or out of his price range. The motels are still partially vacant. He checks into a nicer one and scans the bed for stains before throwing himself on it. The bus had been cramped for normal people, and at his size it had been impossible for him to find a comfortable position to sleep in. He’d chewed up the data on his phone watching Netflix and then attempted to doze while listening to music. He feels like he didn’t sleep at all.

The Aces vs Falconers game is at seven PM. Alexei has plenty of time to sleep.

He does.

He wakes up aching six hours later. The bed is shit.

Giving up on a decent night’s sleep, he heads into the shower and turns down the temperature to wake himself up. There’s a change of clothes in his bag. Wearing a fresh pair of underwear makes him feel more human.

A cup of cheap coffee helps a bit, too.

With several daylight hours to kill, he goes back to his motel room and watches daytime TV for as long as he can stand it. Then he ventures outside. There’s not much of interest near the hotel, so he takes a local bus to the arena area, where restaurants and shops are lined up along the streets like hopeful puppies eager for scraps off the table. It being a weekday, Alexei doesn’t expect to see many people except moms with young kids and some retired persons. He finds just that, but also plenty of out-of-towners who’ve come especially to see the Aces play the Falcs. Preseason tickets are in slightly lower demand than regular season tickets, and preseason is also a good time to see more players on the ice, especially the rookies.

Alexei meanders through some bookshops, a pub, an antiques store, and a flower shop. He has a late lunch and walks some more. He’s never been to Providence, and he finds he quite likes it.

Around five o’clock, cars begin to stream into the arena parking lot and lines begin to form at the ticket windows. Alexei joins them, and the apprehension he’d been avoiding all day comes crashing back. It’s been almost _ten years_ since he’d last been inside an ice rink. He’s obsessed with hockey, in every way he can be, but he’s always stopped short of attending actual games. He’s _nervous_. He finds that his hands are shaking a little. He stuffs them into his jacket pockets and wills himself to calm down.

He came all this way. He doesn’t know _why_ , but he’s here now. He’s committed. He can do this.

It takes him forever to get inside. His ticket was bought online last minute and had cost more than it should have. His seat number is way in the back, practically too far to see anything. He’s in the Providence section but he’s wearing black, although without any Aces logos on him, he doubts anyone will notice the subtle affiliation.

His first step inside the arena is a sucker punch. It smells like he remembers. Cool, clean, and a bit like someone put dirty socks in a margarita machine. The stink of sweat was always stronger in the locker rooms and out on the ice, where men in thick clothes were working up a horrendous sweat. It’s a disgusting stench and it shouldn’t make him feel like he’s come home.

He’s gotten there early enough to watch the warmups. After a bit of deliberation, he heads for the lower bowl, where other fans have crammed against the glass to watch the players speed around the ice.

His favorite thing about hockey had been how it made him feel graceful. He’s always been enormous, and felt ill-fitted to the people and places around him. Low doorways, small chairs, tight hallways, and regular-sized situations in general make him clumsy and awkward. By early high school, he’d towered over his peers, boys and girls alike, and while the girls had tittered and the boys slapped his back admiringly, he’d hated the way his size made him a slow, lumbering beast that lurched through crowds and hallways, doing its best not to squash the smaller creatures around him.

On the ice, all that had melted away. On solid ground, his footsteps were plodding, but on his skates, he flew. In school he was a giant, but on a hockey team, he was average. His size was an advantage; valuable. He’d been a d-man from day one, and the first time he’d pushed a snarling opponent off one of his teammates and sent the guy sliding backwards several feet, he’d felt everything click into place.

On the ice, he wasn’t a beast, he was a protector. A champion. A defender.

Ten years of being restricted to land, and he hasn’t found anything else that feels so right.

Alexei watches the Falconers warming up. He watches their feet, their hands, their bodies hurtling across the smooth ice and thinks, _I can do that._ He watches them move and every fiber of his body remembers it. Aches to join them now.

He clenches his teeth. Jack Zimmermann skates right past him, followed by Snowy, Alexei’s favorite goalie. He tries to enjoy it instead of simmering with envy at the determination on Zimmermann’s face and the smile on Snowy’s.

The Aces take the ice, Kent Parson in the lead.

It’s…bizarre. Alexei has seen Kent in a dress jacket and button-up; in a flannel and jeans; and naked as the day he was born, but never in a jersey. Kent looks bigger with all his gear on, the padding and jersey beefing him up and the skates adding a few inches to his height. He flows across the ice like it’s second nature, the movement of his feet entirely independent of thought or intent. He skates like his heart beats, like he breathes.

He hasn’t pulled on his helmet yet. His hair is free in the cold air, ruffled and messy. There’s already a pink tinge in his cheeks. His smile has an edge, razor-sharp and dangerous, like a coyote that’s just broken into a henhouse. Kent skates near the Falconers but he barely looks at them. His focus is entirely on the puck he’s been passed and the scrape of his stick on the ice.

He’s incredible. He takes Alexei’s breath away. And the jealous, empty place in Alexei hates him. Hates him _so much_ , for having everything Alexei’s ever wanted.

He almost leaves, then and there. He can’t do this. He knows that now. Knows he was so fucking stupid, to think he could ever come back to the ice, to watch _Kent Parson_ , of all people, play hockey.

He feels nineteen years old again, barred from his dream by a busted knee and some scratched-up Plexiglass, the burning behind his eyes telling him he’s not strong enough to withstand this.

On the other hand, this ill-conceived and impulsive trip is going to end up costing him close to three hundred dollars.

Alexei will waste time, words, and emotion, but he will not waste his money.

For that reason alone, he forcibly gets his shit together, visits the concession stand, and loads up on nachos, fries, and pizza. It’s the unhealthiest dinner he’s had in years. He’s going to need it if he’s going to fucking get through this.

Eventually, the game starts. Kent faces off against Zimmermann and gets the puck. Alexei sucks cheese off his fingers and thinks he shouldn’t feel so pleased about that.

Five minutes into the game, the Aces score on Kent’s assist. The Aces convene in a celly near the Falconers’ goal.

The overhead screen shows Voloshyn, the rookie who made the goal, exclaiming in excitement from amid his teammates. Kent looks so pleased on the kid’s behalf, grinning and patting him on the head so hard it knocks his helmet askew. Alexei smiles before he can stop himself.

“Fuck Kent Parson,” he says out loud, just to remind himself which team he’s cheering for, here.

“Got that fuckin’ right,” says the guy to Alexei’s left.

The game starts again and the Falconers get possession. They’ve been looking incredible on TV and their plays are even more amazing in person. Zimmermann’s had several years on their team by now, time enough to get used to their style and to acclimatize to the guys on his line, and it shows. The Falconers zip around the ice, dodging Aces and shoving them into the boards. Kent steals the puck and shoots it back to the Falconers’ side, only to get an icing. The Falconers get possession again.

This time, they score.

First period ends with a 1 – 1 tie.

Alexei goes to dump his trash and visit the bathroom during the break. He waits ten minutes for a urinal. By the time he gets back to his seat, the second period has started.

Both teams make several shots but no goals. One of the Aces gets a penalty for stick interference, and shortly after, a Falconer is sent to the box for high-sticking. No goals are made on either power play, and the second period ends with the score still tied.

The third and final period begins, and almost immediately, the Aces score. It’s Kent’s assist again, which he only manages by narrowly avoiding Zimmermann and passing the puck before Zimmermann’s check can throw him off-balance. As Kent circles the goal with his arms up, he points at Zimmermann and yells something indistinct. The camera is on him and he’s grinning fiendishly. Zimmermann says something back, also unintelligible, but it makes Kent bark a laugh and then skate away.

The Falconers fight hard, but they don’t make up the goal. The game ends at 2 – 1, Aces.

Alexei hates seeing his team lose, even in preseason, although the Falconers don’t look too disheartened as they line up and shake the hands of the Aces. There’s some grumbling from the fans but not too much disappointment.

Like Kent said in the interview, it’s just preseason, which is the time to put the rookies on the ice and let them get a taste of the game.

Alexei wasn’t lying when he said he had the Aces’ schedule memorized, but he pulls out his phone and checks the NHL app anyway. The Aces have one more preseason game on Saturday, and then they begin the season with three straight games at home. They won’t be back in Providence until the end of November.

He licks his lips and stares at the dates. Just because he got through this game doesn’t necessarily mean he wants to sit through another one.

His emotions are a tangled mess of uncertainty. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling right now. He knows that the aching emptiness is still a gaping hole in his chest. Watching the game happen—checks and penalties and shots and goals—right in front of him, _without_ him, had hurt. Seeing the Aces and Falconers clumped together in excited cellies had reminded him of the ones he’d been in long ago. He’d always wondered how his first real NHL celly would feel.

Those memories hurt.

His fingers itch for a stick. He longs to be in skates again, to fly across the ice and feel beautiful and free; to squash guys like Kent Parson into the boards, before they can make their perfect passes to rookie teammates who score on Alexei’s team.

He wants it all and he can’t have any of it, and he hates that so much. He hates the unfairness of it. He hates going through his life this way, knowing what he’s meant for and physically unable to do it.

He didn’t hate watching Kent play, though. He didn’t hate seeing the Falconers in person, either.

He joins the mass exodus of Falconers fans out of the arena and into the cool, clean night air. It’s barely nine PM. Alexei is exhausted from the bus ride, the bad night’s sleep, and the stress of being in the arena. The crap food he ate for dinner hasn’t helped, either.

The responsible thing to do would be to get back on one of the overnight buses and go straight home to Philly. He called his dispatcher last night and made sure they knew he was unavailable for the next day or so. (He might have laid with his head hanging off the side of his bed until he was dizzy before making the call, and induced a couple of exaggerated coughs while on the phone with Amber. He’s pretty sure she knew he was faking but she didn’t call him on it.)

With clients out of the way, he technically doesn’t have to be back in for work until Friday.

That decides him. The motel bed is shit, but it’s better than a bus seat, and he _really_ wants a full night’s sleep. He goes back to the motel, gets an extra blanket from the front desk, and makes the bed as comfortable as possible before curling up on it and falling asleep.

He dreams of pucks cracking against sticks and the shouts of his teammates after a goal.

\--

The following morning finds him with the same bed-related aches but far less exhausted than he was the previous night. Being back on his circadian rhythm stabilizes him. He does some cardio and strength exercises on the limited floor space of his room and takes a hot shower. Despite the fact that he’s wearing yesterday’s clothes again, he feels refreshed.

He also kind of wants a donut, or a bagel, or anything that’s a real pastry. Dry corn chips smothered in processed cheese at the concession stand last night had _not_ cut it.

Alexei pulls out his phone and searches for cafes and bakeries in the area—preferably one that isn’t right next to the arena. That whole area had been flooded with crowds yesterday and he’s sure the tourists will be sticking around this morning. He finds a cafe that’s a bit out of the way, but has good ratings and several rave reviews about the pie.

There are public buses coming through the bus stop by the motel, but none going in the direction he needs. Alexei resigns himself to another expenditure and hails a taxi.

\--

It’s not until he’s on the sidewalk outside _Bittle’s_ that he realizes there’s a dried cheese stain on his shirt collar.

“Well, shit.”

Fortunately, there aren’t many people around to see him. Alexei’s chosen venue is on the edge of the city, straddling the line between urban and residential, and the lack of chaotic noise is refreshing after a night packed into a crowded arena.

He sucks the cheese off his shirt and heads into the shop. A little bell rings overhead to announce his entrance.

It’s like walking into someone’s kitchen after they’ve been baking all day. Warm air that smells of bread, cherries, cinnamon, and coffee envelops Alexei like a hug. The café itself is homey and modern, with white walls and deep blue paneling as accents. The tables are all wooden and square, matching the barista counter and the shelves full of coffee, plates, cups, and warm baked goods behind it. There’s a big chalkboard on the wall, listing the selection of coffee and pastries, in addition to the Pie Of The Day.

No sooner has the door closed behind Alexei than his stomach gives a leonine growl. The sound is audible over the soft piano music playing over the café’s speakers.

The single barista behind the counter—short, black, and gender-indeterminate—laughs. The person’s nametag says Beth. “Yeah, we get that a lot,” they say. “Welcome to Bittle’s. What can I get you?”

Alexei smiles, too, and checks the menu. “Coffee, please, medium.”

“Can do. Anything to eat?” Beth points to the glass case at the end of the counter, where a variety of cold pastries have been laid out on display. Alexei looks them over and says, “Pie of the Day is cherry?”

“Yep. I’ve already had some, it’s amazing. We’re at the end of cherry season, but it’s good flavor for fall.”

“I will have cherry pie, then. Please.”

“Medium coffee and a slice of cherry pie, coming up.”

Alexei pays for his food and waits for Beth to make the coffee and plate the pie. There’s only one other customer in the café, an older woman nursing a cup of tea and a plain scone while she reads a battered novel. Alexei realizes that there’s a small shelf in the corner full of used books. A sign over the shelf says “Take one, leave one.” There are hearts and smilies drawn around the letters, and the friendliness of it makes him smile.

“Coffee and pie. Condiments station is right over there, if you want to add sugar or cream to your coffee.”

“Thank you.”

Alexei adds a bit of cream to his coffee but no sugar. He claims a seat by one of the large windows overlooking the street, and sips his coffee while watching the cars and people go by. When he gets tired of people-watching, he investigates the bookshelf. Beth is wiping down the empty tables, and he asks, “Is okay if I’m just read? And put back after.”

Beth grins. “Yeah, sure. That’s what they’re there for. The exchange thing is only if you want to take it home.”

“You having people who do that?”

“Sure. We even have people who leave new books without taking any. That’s our second bookshelf, the first one got too full and we had to upgrade.”

Alexei finds a generic murder mystery and returns to his table. The coffee is kicking in and he feels more awake. Eating the pie helps, too, although the flavor is so good that he tries to savor it. He understands the rave reviews online. Although there’s definitely sugar in the pie, it’s just a dash, enough to make the flavor indulgent without detracting from the natural sweetness of the fruit. The crust is rich and buttery and it crumbles in his mouth. He makes a little noise of enjoyment and hears Beth chuckle.

“Yeah, that’s normal.”

Eventually he finishes the pie and the coffee, but he stays, ordering another cup of coffee—a small size this time—so he’s not taking up table space. The book he’s picked isn’t great but it isn’t awful, and even though there are buses heading back to Philly as early as noon, he’s not in any rush to get back to the motel and pack his bags. He doesn’t get many vacations. There’s the expense, for a start, and it’s difficult to take more than a day or two off without inconveniencing his clients or the agency. Moreover, the times when he might want to go somewhere are the times of year when he’s most busy. His holidays and weekends are almost always booked solid.

Providence isn’t exactly a week-long vacation in a beachside resort, but it’s the first time he’s been out of New York in months.

Over the next hour, several people come into the café. Some order to-go, a few stay. Beth is joined by a brooding redhead whose nametag says “Toby.” Alexei slowly drains his second coffee and waits to find out if the detective character is going to figure out that her husband is cheating on her before she identifies the killer.

He’s gotten so used to the bell ringing that he only notices peripherally when it rings again.

“Hey,” Beth says from the counter. “You’re early. We figured it’d be noon before you dragged yourself out of bed.”

Alexei turns a page and sips his coffee.

And nearly spits it out when the customer speaks.

“Are you kidding? The guys are starved. I thought Swoops was going to deck me when I said I was thinking about watching another episode of Full House before coming here.” Kent leans over the counter, craning to look into the back. “Bits not in yet?”

Alexei is watching all this happen out the corner of his eye. He sees Beth give Kent a very pointed look. “After a _home game_?”

Kent chuckles. “Yeah, okay. Somebody’s gotta console Zimms in his hour of need.”

Beth smacks him in the arm with a dishtowel. Toby, who has been filling the milk and sugar at the condiments station, stares at them, wide-eyed. Beth notices and laughs. “Oh, don’t worry. His celeb status expires when he walks in the door. Parson, we’ve got most of your team’s usual order ready, we’re just waiting on the muffins. They’ll be out of the oven in about ten minutes, do you mind waiting?”

Kent shrugs. “Nah, it’s cool. Can I get some coffee?”

“Sure.”

Through the exchange, Alexei has been sitting very still in his seat. He’s kept his head aimed at the book still open in his hands. Kent’s back is to him. The second he turns around, though…

Beth hands Kent his coffee. And Kent, rather than go to the condiments station, just turns around and leans against the counter, taking his first sip. His gaze meanders over the café’s patrons.

Alexei is still looking at his book, but he _feels_ the moment Kent sees him.

Kent freezes.

There’s a split second where Alexei considers pretending he didn’t notice Kent; pretending to be too engrossed in his book, or to have not recognized Kent’s voice. Neither is plausible. And using either excuse would send the clear message of _“I was trying to avoid you.”_

Alexei doesn’t want to do that. He still burns with unresolved jealousy that Kent spent yesterday playing hockey and he didn’t, and that Kent invited him to this painful reminder of his crushed dreams in the first place. But it’s not Kent’s fault he’s living the life Alexei wants, and it wasn’t Kent who put Alexei on a bus to Providence.

Alexei looks up from his book. Kent’s face does something complicated.

“H—Um. Hi.” His eyes are wide and his mouth is thin. Alexei thinks Kent wants very badly to smile but isn’t sure if he should. “You, uh. You came. I mean.” A frown. “You did come, right? To the game? Or is it—business?”

Alexei thinks Kent might drop his coffee from sheer nerves if he’s left alone to ramble anymore. So Alexei smiles, and says, “Aces win yesterday, but is only preseason. We beat you for real in November.”

“Bullshit, we kicked your asses yesterday and we’ll do it again,” Kent replies, and his smile is so wide it must hurt his cheeks. “You really went to the game?”

Alexei nods.

Kent waves a hand. “So?”

“So, what?”

A laugh. “Oh come on, you’ll give me a full rundown of the Rangers game but not this one? I need an outside perspective, here.”

Alexei ignores the reminder of his ‘outside’ perspective and says, “Voloshyn is doing well. You putting him on ice a lot, but he is not first string. Coaches planning to put him on your line?”

“Officially, it’s still up in the air.” Kent comes across the shop and puts a hand on the back of the chair opposite Alexei, leaning on it while he sips his coffee. “But yeah, that’s what it’s looking like. I wouldn’t mind, he’s a good kid. Kinda big for a forward but he’s got fast feet, and hot damn, but he can shoot. You see his goal in first period?”

Alexei arches an eyebrow and leans back, crossing his arms. “You mean goal off your assist? Yes, I’m see it. Your stick is getting very high making pass, and you getting very rough with Marty. Surprised refs not give you penalty. Falconers defense is giving you check into boards afterwards but you still skating, maybe I’m thinking they should check you harder.”

Kent’s grin sweetens and he leans in more, biting his lip. “Aw, don’t be like that, ‘Lexi. If you think I need a little slamming into the boards, you can do it yourself, you just gotta ask.” And then the fucker _winks_.

“Ah- _hem_.” Beth clears their throat just behind him. Kent jumps a mile. Beth and Toby—the latter blushing, the former grinning—have three large paper bags of goodies. “Don’t you have some hungry teammates to feed?”

Kent’s gone red and Alexei is barely holding back laughter. Kent takes a bag from Beth and says, “Yeah. Right.”

Beth and Toby load the other two bags into Kent’s arms. He’s able to hold them, though it looks unwieldly. Beth says, “There’s also a pie in there from the boss.”

“What kind?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Beth turns to Alexei. “Can I get you a coffee refill?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Okay.” Beth taps Toby’s shoulder and beckons him back to the barista counter. “Don’t drop the bags, Parson. If you squash the pie and Bitty finds out, he’ll put jalapenos in your muffins.”

Kent huffs. “He has _literally_ given me an apple pie with cheese in it; I think I can handle his brand of weird.”

Beth laughs and disappears into the back of the shop.

Kent shuffles the bags in his arms. He’s unable to hold them in a way that’ll let him pick up his coffee. “Well, shit. I think they did that on purpose.”

“You can finish coffee first,” Alexei says. It would keep Kent here longer. He wants to keep Kent here longer.

Kent purses his lips but ultimately groans and shakes his head. “No. God, I wish, but the guys are waiting for breakfast and if I leave them hanging, Finch will give me that look like I just kicked his dog. He doesn’t even have dogs, he’s allergic.” Suddenly he brightens and says, “Come with me.”

Alexei stares. “What?”

“You on a schedule? Going home soon?”

“No. I’m stay until Friday morning.”

“So come with me.” He jostles the bags in his arms. “Be my pack mule and come meet the guys.”

‘The guys.’ The Las Vegas Aces. An NHL hockey team.

Alexei hesitates for way too long. He tries to keep his apprehension off his face, but Kent sees it, and he sobers.

“What?”

“I—” Alexei… can’t finish. Fuck.

Kent’s grin is gone. Gingerly he sets the bags down next to the table and slides into the seat. He puts both hands around his coffee and leans his elbows on the table’s edge. His expression isn’t intense or serious. It’s… soft. Open. When Kent speaks, his voice is gentle. “Talk to me?”

Alexei hates the way he can’t meet Kent’s gaze. He hates that his eyes fall to the table, that there’s a weight on his chest. He hates that Kent—fucking motor mouth Kent Parson—is sitting there, utterly silent, waiting for Alexei to speak. Kent’s always talking. Alexei wishes to God he’d talk now.

He can’t say what’s on his mind. The words won’t come out. Instead, he says, “Is not… imposition?”

“What, you coming along? Of course not.”

“How you explain?”

Kent’s smile is lop-sided. “You’re my friend though hockey. There’s not a person on earth who wouldn’t buy that.”

 “Just friend?” Alexei asks, and when Kent’s face goes deer-in-the-headlights, he adds, “New York photos still online. Teammates not… ask about that? You not worried about photographers?”

Kent looks pained. “You saw those, huh?”

“And post-game interview in Ohio.” _And your Instagram photo with Russian text_ , he thinks, but doesn’t add that. Kent already looks like this conversation is getting more personal than he wants to be in public.

“Okay. Well.” Kent shrugs one shoulder, then the other. It looks awkward. “I’m not really…I’m out, obviously, but I don’t talk about—My private life is still my private life. If I don’t say anything, nobody really asks. But. Uh.” Kent fiddles with his coffee. “I told Chesney. Er, Brian Choi, my alternate. I told him everything, or most of it, after the post-game. It’s press shit, and he was there for it, so I figured he deserved to know how deep a hole I’d dug myself into. Not that you’re—” He cuts himself off.

“I understand. Is bad position for you.”

Kent’s expression is one of disbelief. “You don’t _really_ think that’s my only concern, do you? You think I don't care how this affects you?”

No, Alexei doesn’t think that. Kent is considerate to the media even when they haven’t deserved it, and gentle with the children who sometimes join the Aces for practice in PR segments. Kent’s good with his teammates and generous with fans. He’s the sort to hire an escort to accompany him to his high school reunion and later apologize for needing the companionship. He kisses like he’s aching for affection and then tells the guy he’s paying to fuck him that it’s fine if he wants to leave when the sex is done.

Kent Parson is painfully kind, to a fault. He doesn’t protect himself, and Alexei can’t be the one to do it for him. He can’t be the one to always remind Kent of the necessity of distance. If Alexei was qualified to do that, he wouldn’t be in Providence right now.

Alexei was a defensemen, but just on the ice. In real life he’s as clumsy as everyone else.

“I’m not have NHL career to lose,” Alexei says, because he’s jealous of everything Kent has, but he wouldn’t wish that loss on anyone.

Kent’s still looking at him like he’s having trouble finding logic in Alexei’s words. “There’s worse things to lose,” he says.

 _How the hell would you know_? “I disagree.” Alexei knows he sounds terse.

Kent sighs. “Look, I’m not—You don’t have to come. I’d like you to. I think you’d like the guys and I think they’d like you. And I could really use the help,” he adds, tapping one of the bags. “But it’s your call.”

Alexei internally flinches at the idea and burns for it all at once.

Kent’s hesitant smile shouldn’t be the deciding factor, but it is.

“Yes, okay.”

“Fuck yeah!” Kent jumps out of his seat. “Come on, help me with the bags.”

Alexei drains the rest of his coffee and gets up. “I’m carry _one_ bag.”

“Fuck that, you got longer arms than me.”

“Yes, but I carry your coffee.” Alexei picks up Kent’s half-finished paper cup of brew, and smiles beatifically until Kent rolls his eyes and laughs.

“Don’t drink it. That’s my first cup of real beans this morning and I fucking need it.”

Across the shop, Beth calls, “What you _need_ is to stop swearing inside my bakery, Parson!”

“Sorry!” Kent hands one of the brown bags to Alexei and hefts the other two in his arms. “They oughta get a swear jar, they’d make so much money off me.”

“I feel like swear jar only encourage you,” Alexei says. He realizes he’s left the murder mystery book on the table, flipped upside down with the pages open to save his place. He kind of wants to take it with him, find out how it ends, but he doesn’t have a book to put in its place.

“You want it?” Kent nods to the book. “I can’t trade for it, but I’ll ask Beth how much. They can put it on the Aces tab.”

Alexei shakes his head, picking it up and taking it back to the shelf. “I’m find later at library. Finish then.”

Toby, who is refilling milk at the condiments station nearby, looks over and says quietly, “If you want to just take it…I think it’s probably okay.”

“Your boss not mind?”

Toby shakes his head.

“If you are sure.”

Toby nods and resumes filling the milk pitcher.

Alexei gingerly places the book into the bag he’s holding. “Thank you. It’s very kind.”

A shrug from Toby.

Alexei rejoins Kent and they leave the bakery, with Kent trying to shoulder open the door before Beth whisper-yells at them and Alexei gets it for him. They step out onto the street, bright sun streaming down. Kent fumbles for a moment and slips on a pair of sunglasses. He turns to Alexei and says, “Totally incognito.”

Alexei snorts. “How? Is hundreds of selfies with fans on Instagram. You wearing sunglasses in half of them, you think nobody recognize you this way?”

They’re walking, and Kent doesn’t stop, but he does falter. “You’re on Instagram now?” His voice is a shade too high.

“Mm.”

“Oh.”

And Alexei knows that Kent knows Alexei’s seen the picture. And if Alexei were the sort to talk about feelings, to broach topics about what it means that he saw the picture and is now in Providence to watch a game he originally turned down, then now would be the time for him to do that.

But Alexei does not broach that topic, because he doesn’t know where that conversation would go. More importantly, he doesn’t even know enough about what he feels to know what he’d say.

“Kit have her own Instagram,” Alexei says instead. “Why?”

“Alexei, you’ve _seen_ my cat,” Kent replies. “She’s fucking adorable. Why wouldn’t I enshrine that adorableness for public consumption?”

“Kit is very adorable. But account is having nine hundred photos. In three years, is having nine hundred photos. Of _cat_.”

“Are you dragging my cat? If you’re dragging my cat, I’m gonna fight you. Don’t fucking—don’t laugh, I completely will, here in the street.”

“You can’t.” Alexei turns just enough to smirk at him. “Drop pie, get in trouble. Jalapeno muffins, Kent.”

“I’ll fight you and eat my damn muffins like a man.”

They continue down the street in this fashion, and Alexei is startled to realize that Kent is easy to talk to. Alexei already knew that, but somehow he’d equated it to the necessity of making conversation with a client. On paid time, it’s Alexei’s responsibility to keep the conversation flowing, finding new things to talk about and discussing them amicably. Even when Alexei had been arguing with Kent about hockey in the bar, he’d always had that little thought in the back of his mind that it was his _responsibility_ to make sure Kent had a good time. All instances of feeling warm when he made Kent laugh, of reaching out to make contact when Kent looked despondent or tired; keeping an eye on him when he got drunk, then making sure he got home just fine—Alexei had known it was his duty as an escort. Separating the habitual care he showed all clients from the attentiveness he adopted around Kent _specifically_ was something he had neither thought to do, nor quite been able to.

Now, though. This isn’t paid time. Kent is still a client, but this isn’t paid time. It isn’t a date. There’s no obligation. Kent just _is_ , an Alexei just _is_ , and Alexei has friends, but nobody like Kent.

Half a block from Kent’s hotel, Kent tugs his sleeve and makes a detour down a side street.

“Going in the back way,” he says. “Because you’re right, everybody and their mom has seen me with sunglasses.”

Kent’s “back way” turns out to be the loading docks. Kent pulls two muffins out of Alexei’s bag and gives them to the security guard stationed there. The man nods, bites into a muffin, and holds the door open for them. “Pleasure doing business with you, Parson.”

The Aces are staying on the fifth floor. In the elevator, Kent goes quiet and stares at his reflection in the mirror. His jaw twitches like he’s clenching his teeth.

Alexei says, “You are tense. Is just team, not St. Anne’s Academy reunion, yes? No pressure.”

Kent laughs, and his shoulders relax. “Yeah.” He grins at Alexei, and Alexei smiles back.

The elevator stops and the doors open. Kent steps out. Alexei takes a breath, and follows.


	8. One Little Taste

“This one’s mine,” Kent says, stopping in front of room 512. He turns his ass towards Alexei and says, “Can you grab my keycard?”

Alexei can see the outline of the card in Kent’s back pocket. “Is all I’m grab?” he asks, disbelieving his own cheek the second it’s out of his mouth, but not able to regret it because it makes Kent laugh. He gets the keycard out. He might drag his fingers along Kent’s ass more than strictly necessary.

This is a dangerous game he’s playing. He can’t attribute this flirtation to money or good customer service. He can’t attribute anything he’s doing now to the duties of a job, just his own selfish desires and how good it makes him feel to see Kent’s eyes crinkle in a smile.

He shouldn’t do this. He absolutely cannot do this. But clearly that’s not enough to stop him.

Alexei slips the keycard in and out of the lock. The light blinks green. Kent calls through the door, “Room service, Chesney, you better have pants on!” Then he nods to Alexei, and Alexei lets them in.

The hotel is fairly standard. It’s not the nicest Alexei’s ever seen, but it’s nicer than anything he’s stayed in while on his own. It’s definitely better than his current motel. There are two twin beds and more than enough room for two people to move around them, in addition to a dresser, a desk, two nightstands, and a pair of small armchairs with a circular coffee table between them. The décor is a generic cream-and-gold setup, but tasteful instead of gaudy. There are suitcases and duffels in the corners, coffee cups in the trash, and neither bed is made. The air in the room is damp and smells of shower products. Alexei thinks he recognizes Kent’s cologne in the mix.

Kent apparently does, too. He puts his bags of baked goods on the coffee table and calls through the closed bathroom door, “Chesney, are you using my shit?”

The door opens, and Brian Choi comes out in a green sweater and jeans. “Depends on which shit you mean.”

“I mean my cologne.”

“Then yes.”

“ _Why_?”

Choi—or Chesney, Alexei supposes—shrugs and tugs at the sleeves of his sweater to straighten them. “Couldn’t find mine.” He moves his gaze from Kent to Alexei. “Hi.”

“Hello.”

Chesney holds out his hand. “Brian Choi.”

Alexei puts Kent’s coffee and his own bag aside and shakes Chesney’s hand. “Alexei Mashkov.” When they let go, Chesney looks back at Kent and says, “You want me to get the guys, tell them breakfast is here?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” Dark eyes on Alexei again, accompanied by a smile. “Good to meet you.”

Kent groans and says, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Chesney, it’s not what you think. He knows you know, and this isn’t— We just ran into each other completely at random and he’s helping me carry the food. Okay? We’re all on the same fucking page, everyone in this room. Let’s skip you judging my life choices.”

“Who said I was doing that?” To Alexei, Chesney says, “Washington Capitals, right? Third round?”

“Yes.”

Kent’s gone tense, like he wants to tackle his teammate but is too frozen in horror to move.

Chesney continues, “Damn shame, about your knee. The Caps could have used your defense.”

Alexei thinks about the Caps’ stats that year. “Agreed.”

Chesney smiles and shakes his hand again. “I really am glad to meet you. Sorry our deadbeat captain roped you into carrying his shit for him.”

“He is very persistent,” Alexei agrees. “Call me pack mule, say he just want to introduce me to his teammates, but I think he just too lazy to carry bags himself.”

Kent goes to dig through the bags. “Neither of you are getting a piece of this pie.”

“Like I want to eat whatever weirdness Bittle decided to feed you this time.” Cheney joins him at the bags and sniffs. “Is that _tomato_?”

Kent pulls out the pie tin and pops open the cover to get a whiff, himself. “Christ, I hope not. Who the fuck puts tomatoes in a pie?”

Chesney shrugs and retrieves his own pastries from the bag. Kent puts the pie aside and gulps the rest of his coffee. Alexei is about to ask if _he_ should go retrieve the Aces team for breakfast when there’s a knock on the door.

Alexei goes to open it. A Japanese man of medium height and formidable hockey muscle hesitates at the sight of someone who isn’t a teammate.

“I, uh. I smelled Bittle’s?”

From behind Alexei, Kent calls, “Finch! Buddy, my pal. Go tell the guys to get their asses over here for breakfast or I’m eating all their pie.”

Finch leans to look around Alexei. “And my banana bread? Did you get my banana bread?”

“We got your banana bread.”

Alexei adds, “We not look in bags, but I’m sure it is there.”

Finch says, “Okay,” and dashes off, pounding on doors. Within minutes, the Aces are assembling in Kent and Chesney’s hotel room. A few take their pastries and go back to their rooms, but a lot of them stay.

It gets crowded fast.

Alexei stays by the bags, helping to distribute the food. Jeff Troy, one of the starting forwards, accepts his muffins gratefully and bites into one with a moan. “Fuck, these are so good. Thanks for bringing them all the way here.”

“Is no problem.”

“Providence is seriously one of my favorite stops all year. Eric makes _the_ best muffins in the whole US, you can tell him that when you go back.”

Alexei realizes that Troy thinks he’s from Bittle’s. “I’m not bakery staff,” he says. “I’m just help Kent carry bags here.”

Troy stops mid-bite. “Wait,” he says; chews; swallows. “Wait, hold on, you’re here with Kent?”

Alexei doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. “Yes. We have met before. He saw me at bakery, asked for me to help carry bags to hotel.”

Several inscrutable things cross Troy’s face. “Well, it’s good to meet you,” he says, and then he looks over his shoulder and yells, “Parse! Where are you, you little shit?” Troy elbows his way through the other guys in the room and over to Kent, who’s sitting on the windowsill next to an enormous, burly man with a frightening amount of beard. Alexei’s gotten very familiar with the Aces roster lately (for no reason, just academic curiosity) and he’s fairly sure that’s Leonard Morrison.

Kent sees Troy coming, notices Alexei watching, and stuffs an entire muffin in his mouth.

Just then, the door opens again. Finch comes in, with Pavlo Voloshyn in tow. “I found him,” Finch declares to those attended, who turn towards him and grow quiet. “I found him eating the hotel’s _continental breakfast_!”

Noise erupts.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Disgraceful.”

 “The fuck, Pavlo?”

Voloshyn, pink with embarrassment, glares at a smirking Finch and throws up his hands. “I don’t know! You say wait but I am hungry!”

Finch clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “You were eating _instant cinnamon rolls_. The kind from a _can_.”

The exclamations of dismay increase. After a few minutes of grown men shaking their heads and scolding an eighteen-year-old kid whose face has gone tomato red, Kent raises his voice over the hubbub. “Nobody tell Bittle! This never happened, and it never will again. Right?” He looks pointedly at Voloshyn.

“Yes! I am mean, no! Never will again.”

“Repeat after me, Pavlo: ‘We don’t eat trash breakfast in Providence.’”

Clearly baffled but wanting forgiveness, Voloshyn repeats, “We don’t eat trash breakfast in Providence.”

Tim Rossi, another forward, grins and ruffles the mortified kid’s hair. “Go get a muffin.”

Finch drags Voloshyn to the bags and digs through them for his banana bread. When he finds it, he gives a slice to the rookie, whose eyes widen when he eats it.

“See?” Finch says. “Way better than junk from a can, right?”

Voloshyn nods, still eating, and grumbles, “I don’t _know_.”

Alexei grins, and says in Russian, “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll forgive you by Christmas.”

Voloshyn’s head snaps up and his eyes boggle. “You speak Russian?”

Alexei chuckles. “I _am_ Russian. I grew up near Moscow. What about you, where’re you from?”

“Ukraine. Around Kiev, but, like, the rural outskirts? Farming country.”

Alexei nods. “You were drafted this year, weren’t you? Fifth round?”

“I almost thought I wouldn’t get picked.”

“But you did.”

The smile that spreads over Voloshyn’s face is brilliant. “Yeah. I still can’t believe it.”

“How do you like the Aces?” Alexei realizes that even if nobody is actively staring at them, the rest of the team is paying attention to the fact that Kent’s tagalong is casually conversing with their rookie in fluent Russian. None of them had asked his name, probably making the same assumption Troy had about Alexei being a staff member from the bakery. He’s losing his anonymity fast, this way.

He doesn’t stop talking, though. He remembers what it was like, his first months—years, even—in America, surrounded by English and often feeling crushed by the weight of everything he didn’t understand. Whenever he did run into the odd individual from the homeland, or even someone from remotely nearby, it was such a relief to speak fluently and easily again. It was like releasing a breath he’d been holding.

Voloshyn is already looking relaxed, gesturing and smiling as he talks. Even with the stress of adjusting to a foreign country while starting his first season in the NHL, he clearly loves being with the Aces.

“…but like, it’s not as funny when I can’t understand everything they’re saying, you know?”

“Oh god, yes. I’ve been here over seven years and I still find myself in conversations where everyone’s laughing and I didn’t catch the joke.”

“Does it get easier, though? The—everything?”

“It does. Just give it time. Try to balance the things you like with the things you can’t fucking stand. And make friends with other Russian speakers,” he adds, “so you can get together sometimes and bitch about it.”

Voloshyn laughs. “There’s no shortage of us in the NHL, at least. What team are you on?”

It should hurt. It does hurt, a little. But Voloshyn looks so earnest that Alexei doesn’t mind. “I’m not. I was, but I got injured.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What team?”

“Washington Capitals. I was drafted, but I never played.”

“That fucking sucks,” Voloshyn breathes. “I couldn’t stand it if I couldn’t play.”

Alexei smiles because he knows exactly how that feels, if from the other side. “Lucky for us, you can.”

Someone taps Alexei’s shoulder. It’s Troy. Kent is behind him. Troy says, “I’m heading out. Can I get a muffin to go?”

Alexei fishes one out and hands it to him.

“Thanks. Alexei Mashkov, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Jeff Troy. Call me Swoops. Good to meet you, man.”

They shake.

“Alexei Mashkov?” Voloshyn’s eyes have gone wide again. Alexei realizes he never formally introduced himself to the rookie. “Oh my god. You—I met you when you were in Juniors. I mean, your team did a hockey clinic with my club when I was a kid, this is—holy crap.” To Kent and Swoops, Voloshyn fumbles, “I’m, we meet, before. I’m kid, we meet, play hockey. In Kiev.” He turns back to Alexei. “This is so fucking cool. I don’t know if you remember, but you gave me some advice about my slapshot? You told me to—” He gets into a shooting position. “—bend my knees and push off with my back leg, really drive the shot on the downswing.” He stands up straight again. “It helped me a lot. I practiced all week and got a hat trick in my next game. You really inspired me.”

Voloshyn stands there grinning, looking between Alexei and his teammates. Alexei’s face feels warm.

He doesn’t remember Voloshyn, but he remembers the clinic. As big as he’d felt usually, he’d felt like a giant among so many youngsters. He and the other Junior League boys had skated with them all day, running them through basic drills and offering advice where they could. Alexei doesn’t remember this boy, but he does remember the happiness of that day, and how it had felt to be sixteen, still a kid himself, but having all these other kids looking up to him like he was a hero. He remembers how he and his teammates had cheered whenever one of the kids made a goal or completed a successful pass.

He’d always thought that when he got into the NHL, he could do that all the time. Be a real role model for young hockey players who wanted to be just like him.

Alexei’s just an injured wash-out, but Pavlo’s looking at him like he’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.

“I’m glad it helped you,” he says finally. “You’re a good hockey player. You belong in the NHL.”

In the following silence of Voloshyn gleefully absorbing the compliment, Alexei hears Swoops mutter, “Close your mouth, Parson, you’ll catch flies.”

Kent snaps his mouth shut and punches Swoops in the arm. “Shut the fuck up.”

Swoops rubs his arm and grins. “Alright, I’m blowing this popsicle stand. Pavlo, don’t talk the guy’s ear off. Parse, you got my blessing. Make good choices.”

“I will _smother you in your sleep_ , Swoops, I swear to god!” Kent yells after him, and continues to mumble murderous things at Swoops’ retreating back. He runs his hands through his hair and mutters, “I need new friends.”

Alexei grins. “I like your friends.”

“They’re nosy as fuck and not half as hilarious as they think they are,” Kent replies. He rocks on his feet. Alexei thinks he might see some pink in Kent’s ears, hiding in his hair. Kent’s hair is getting long and needs a cut. Kent says, “I’ve never heard you speak Russian before.”

“You think I’m faking accent?”

“Ha. No. It’s just, I don’t know.” He shrugs and looks off across the room instead of at Alexei. His ears are definitely pink. “Never heard it from you before, is all. Just the, you know. That thing you call me.”

 _Solnyshko_ , Alexei wants to say. But he can’t, not with Voloshyn standing right here. There’s no other explanation for a word like that except as a pet name. A second ago, Alexei was happy to speak comfortably in Russian with a fellow native speaker, but now he wishes Voloshyn were gone so he could say something flirtatious and have no one else understand.

In which case, _thank god_ for Voloshyn. Alexei shouldn’t be flirting with Kent in the first place.

“I’ll speak to you in Russian more often, then,” Alexei says, in Russian. “I think it’ll be funny saying shit you can’t understand right to your face.”

Voloshyn snickers.

Kent’s mouth pinches. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing.”

“Pavlo, tell me what he just said.”

“I’m sorry,” Voloshyn replies. “I don’t know how to tell in English.”

Alexei puts on his biggest shit-eating grin and keeps talking. “You’re an extraordinary hockey player, without peer. The Aces have prospered under your leadership and will continue to do so for years to come.”

Voloshyn’s laughter has him doubled over.

Kent yanks his phone out of his pocket. “Say that again, slowly. I’m google translating this.”

\--

Kent had been right; Alexei likes the Aces.

What he likes the most is how they are with Kent. The senior players—Chesney, Swoops, Sunny (Morrison), Rose (Rossi), and Santa (DeSantos)—will chirp him relentlessly, but they all smile like it’s fond. The younger players—Finch and Pavlo—hang off his words and light up when he talks to them, no matter the topic. Pavlo stays with Alexei, chattering non-stop, like he’s had everything bottled up for months. He probably has.

Eventually the food runs out and the players trickle back out of the room. Most have introduced themselves to Alexei, and a surprising number of them recognize his name. They ask what he’s been up to, how he likes life in the States, and talk shop with him like he’s just another player. They don’t _pry_ , though, don’t really ask how he knows Kent or why he’s here _with_ Kent. And the longer Kent stays in Alexei’s orbit, talking and laughing with the other guys and eating his weight in baked goods but never quiet _leaving_ Alexei’s side, Alexei realizes that Kent’s teammates are treading carefully. They’re treating Kent, and Alexei by extension, like stray cats who’ve suddenly decided to come inside and lay on the rug. Like they’re fine with it if the strays decide to stay, but they’re wary of coming on too strong and scaring them off.

Alexei wonders if all the men Kent’s been involved with have received the same treatment.

Eventually the crowd dwindles to Alexei, Kent, Sunny, and Pavlo. Sunny takes pity on Alexei and gently but firmly shepherds Pavlo out with him. “You’ll see him again, kid, don’t worry,” he tells Pavlo, glancing at Kent as he does.

Kent goes pink.

When the Aces have all departed, leaving empty pie tins and trash cans full of muffin cups in their wake, Kent groans and sinks into an armchair. Alexei comes and sits in the other one.

“Sorry,” Kent says, staring upwards.

“For what?”

Kent gestures to the room at large. Alexei takes that to mean everyone on the Aces team.

“They’re good guys.”

“They’re not as subtle as they think.” Kent frowns at the stucco ceiling.

“You brought strange man to hotel, to team breakfast. They are curious,” Alexei says.

Kent still looks unsettled, so Alexei nudges Kent’s foot with his. “Take team chirping like a man, Kent. Same as muffins.”

It draws a smile out and gets Kent to look at him. Alexei is finding that to be addictive, the ability to make Kent relax with just a few words. He always gets the same look, too. Surprise mixed with relief, like, ‘Oh, right, I’m not alone. I’ve got you.’

Except it’s a lie. Kent does _not_ have Alexei. Not enough for him to be inviting Alexei to a team gathering, or smiling at him this way, or resting his foot against Alexei’s under the table. It’s very comfortable between them right now, sitting in silence in an empty hotel room. Chesney has disappeared without warning or explanation, and Alexei would have to be an _idiot_ not to read into that.

If this was a paid date, he knows what his next move would be: casual flirting, a little touching, getting Kent worked up until he’d leap at a suggestion to move to the bed. Not all dates end in seduction but Alexei has never backed down from one if he’s attracted and the client is inclined. He established on day one that he’d take Kent in any conceivable way he could get.

Except this is not a paid date. This isn’t a date, period. Unless it is? Alexei’s not sure. Without the boundaries set by a client-escort transaction of money and services, the only restrictions are the ones Alexei sets for himself. If he teases, flirts, seduces; kisses; fucks; it can’t be excused by the requirements of his job.

He wants to touch Kent right now. He wants to pull Kent into his lap, get Kent’s shirt off, run his hands all over Kent’s powerful body and sink his teeth into that supple skin. He wants to hear Kent gasping and moaning again. He wants Kent’s fingers in his hair, pulling too hard because he’s too turned on to be gentle anymore.

He wants to take everything, and give everything, and the problem is that if he does, the implication will be that he _means it_.

The idea of kissing Kent and meaning it and having Kent _know_ that he means it scares Alexei shitless.

“So,” Kent says, and Alexei realizes he’s been quiet for too long. “Is this your first time in Providence?”

“Yes.”

“I come every year. Well, obviously. But I like the city. It’s a nice area to visit.”

Alexei nods. “I like it, too.” What little he’s seen has been pleasant.

“You want the grand tour?”

Alexei frowns, not knowing what Kent’s asking. “Grand tour?”

“Of the city.” Kent’s got the same excited look as when he asked Alexei to meet the Aces, like he thinks he’s just had the most brilliant idea. Alexei looks across the room to the double windows, where the open curtains are letting in the crisp, clear light of early afternoon. It’s cool outside but the daylight will be with them for hours yet.

It’s Thursday. Alexei has already said he isn’t going home until Friday. “You are staying in Providence until tomorrow?” he asks.

“We’ve got an early flight, but yeah.” Kent’s not leaning back in his chair anymore. He’s sitting up, elbows propped on his knees, leaning forward eagerly like he thinks the sheer force of his intent will get Alexei to agree. He’s in a nondescript hoodie and jeans, the snapback abandoned when he needs it most; his hair is getting wild and untamable. It’s still a lovely gold. Alexei knows what it feels like to run his hands through it. He knows how Kent’s smile tastes. He knows that underneath the bulky clothes is a body of softness and steel.

It’s still not a date.

“What about paparazzi?” Alexei asks. It’s both a genuine concern and a last-ditch attempt to remind them both of reality.

Rather than be cowed, though, Kent gets a light in his eye like he’s about to pull a fast one on the other team’s defense and go top-shelf on their goalie. Alexei thinks it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

Kent leans in more and says, “Fuck them. We’ll wear sunglasses and keep our heads down. If I get spotted, I don’t give a shit. I’ll sign some autographs, take some selfies, move on.”

“And me? You think fans not make connection, with New York photos?” It’s the logical thing to say. It’s what Kent should be thinking about, honestly. He shouldn’t be throwing caution to the wind. This isn’t some bad publicity he’s courting; it’s his entire career. Alexei remembers the split-second look of total panic that had crossed Kent’s face in Columbus, when the reporter had asked about his “date.” Kent has three Stanley Cups and almost a decade of captaining under his belt, he’s been acknowledged for years as one of the NHL’s best, past or present; but he has only just gotten through the PR mess of coming out, and he isn’t _ironclad_.

Just as when Alexei had brought up the distance of their client-escort relationship in New York, Kent’s determination dims. And Alexei hates himself for doing that, the same as he did then.

It’s necessary. It’s better for both of them.

Kent sighs, looks at the floor, and then back up. “Do you ever just get sick of being afraid?”

 _It’s not the same_ , Alexei thinks. _It’s not fear. It’s practicality. One of us needs to be smart._

He thinks about the ten years he spent away from the ice, compared to how he felt suffering through Kent’s beautiful performance on the ice yesterday. It had hurt so much to be back at a rink, but he still can’t regret having stood so close to the Falconers, having seen his team up close, having watched Kent’s joy as he played.

Oh, what the hell. Alexei hasn’t been stupid in ten years. He’s due.

“Fine.” Alexei leans forward, meets Kent’s hopeful smile with a dry one of his own. “Where you want to go?”


	9. Lead You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 100% dedicated to [luckie_dee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckie_dee/pseuds/luckie_dee), without whom I would still be glaring at MS Word and re-writing it for the fifth time. Thank you for beta-ing, for cheering me on, and for reminding me what I enjoyed about writing this fic in the first place. :)

Prior to their departure from the hotel, Kent’s first act of business is to Google something on his phone. He won’t let Alexei see what it is.

“Fuck yes!” Kent exclaims. When he looks up from the screen, he’s grinning. “Okay, we’ve got some hours to kill. Will you be warm enough walking around outside in just a shirt and jacket? Even at night? It gets cold up here.”

Alexei looks down at himself. “I’m Russian.”

“Yeah, and I play ice hockey and grew up in New York, and I can’t fucking stand the cold. That’s why I’ve got three layers on and I’m grabbing a jacket before we go.” Kent gets up from his chair. “So?”

Alexei gets up, too. “I’m okay. It’s warm jacket. Where we go at night?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Kent goes to his closet to fish out the aforementioned jacket, which he ties around his waist like it’s 1995. Alexei would chirp him but it’s too fucking cute.

Kent heads for the door but Alexei hangs back, looking around the room. It was mildly messy when they came in but now it’s kind of disastrous, with the beds further rumpled from people sitting on their edges and all the available trashcans filled up with leavings. The delivery bags have been rolled up and stuffed inside each other, along with the discarded pie and quiche tins.

“Housekeeping will get it,” Kent says.

Alexei still cringes at the mess, but he goes with Kent, who checks for his keycard before closing the door behind them.

Outside the hotel, all is quiet. Alexei doesn’t see anyone with cameras hanging out in wait.

“Probably stalking the Falconers,” Kent says, and hails a taxi.

Their first stop is the Rhode Island School of Design Museum. It’s a big, brick-and-steel building with paneled windows. At the door, Kent pays both their admission fees. When he hands Alexei his ticket, Alexei says, “How about I’m pay for my own, next time?” and Kent winces.

“Shit. Sorry. I don’t know why I was thinking like this was—”

“It’s okay.” Alexei pats his shoulder and nudges him in the direction of the Asian Exhibit. “You giving tour, or what?”

Surprisingly, Kent knows a good deal about the museum. He’s not an art expert by any means, but he knows his way around and how to keep things interesting. Kent has a low-key love affair with ancient art. It’s where he lingers the most on individual pieces, saying things like, “I remember this one from last time, I love the colors in it,” and “Fucking incredible, right? Four thousand years old, and somehow it’s still in once piece.”

It’s adorable, is what it is.

“I hope I’m not boring you,” Kent says at one point, breaking the contemplative silence they’d been sharing in front of an oil painting of a cleric. The man in the portrait has a small mouth, small eyes, a disproportionately large nose, and a bowl cut. His hands are pressed together before him in prayer. He is painfully mundane and ordinary, by all appearances, but the devout peace in his expression is what makes the portrait arresting. The longer Alexei looks at him, the more beautiful he finds the clean lines of the man’s face, the quiet intensity in his eyes.

Alexei shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’m not bored. I don’t usually visit museum. It’s nice.”

“If you’re sure,” Kent says. “Because if you’re sick of looking at paintings of Jesus and cracked pottery from one-thousand B.C., just let me know. I won’t be offended if you want to leave.”

“I know. But I’m not bored. All the time, I go to fancy restaurants, fancy hotels. Loud parties, small talk I’m not always understand.” He nods at the painting. “This is beautiful. Is not boring.”

Kent smiles. “You think this guy is beautiful?”

Alexei nods, points to the features. “He is looking very average. Many paintings, try to make person look important. Smooth, perfect. This man is not look important. But his face, look in his eyes. Strong. Quiet, but strong.”

“Yeah? That’s funny. I was thinking he reminds me of you.”

“Because of nose?”

Kent laughs, moves on to the next painting. “Yeah, that’s part of it.”

They stop by the gift shop as they leave. Kent picks up a keychain, while Alexei browses the post card selection for a while before settling on three. One of the postcards has the painting of the average-looking cleric on it.

“Do you collect post cards?” Kent asks as they leave.

“No. But I don’t travel usually, so I’m thinking maybe I send to family in Russia. I think they find interesting.”

“Definitely,” Kent agrees. “If you don’t mind my asking, who all is in your family? Do you have siblings?”

“Only one. My younger sister, Yelizaveta. She is twenty-one, college student. She graduate next year.”

“That’s awesome. You must be really proud.”

Alexei nods. “She is first in our family.”

“Oh. So, you didn’t…?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Kent says again. “Well, you know. Me neither.”

They’ve wandered down the street quite a ways by now. He doesn’t know if Kent’s taking them anywhere in particular, he doesn’t seem to be focused on street signs or landmarks. Alexei doesn’t mind. The city’s architecture is interesting and diverse, full of modern additions and historical originals. Along this street are lots of brick buildings with columns and arched entryways. Probably lecture halls and university offices. Most of the people on the sidewalks look around Yelizaveta’s age, backpacks and messenger bags over their shoulders, coffees in their hands.

“Is okay. You were busy with hockey,” Alexei says.

Kent shrugs. “So were you.”

Alexei licks his lips. “If you had gone. What would you study?”

“Accounting,” Kent says without hesitation. “Or something math-related. Don’t laugh,” he adds, because Alexei has a huge grin on his face. “I’m serious.”

“I’m not laughing.” It’s the truth. He just—he never in a million years would have expected that, but it _fits_. “Do you like math?”

“Yeah. It’s fun. I do puzzle books and Sudoku on roadies all the time.”

The image this conjures—Kent Parson bent over a travel-worn Sudoku book with his lip between his teeth and a pencil twirling in one hand—is terribly intimate. “Why you like it so much?” he asks.

“It’s simple. Or—not simple, I guess. But math is something I can _solve_. You know? Even if it takes me three days to figure something out, I always know that if I work hard enough, I can. Math isn’t messy.” He huffs a laugh. “Life, and—and people aren’t always that clean cut.”

Alexei nods.

“What about you? What would you have studied, if you’d gone to college?”

“Don’t know. Wasn’t my plan. Then, wasn’t an option.” Alexei shrugs. “Didn’t think about it much.”

“Really? Not even once?” Kent asks, his tone light. He sneaks a glance at Alexei, gauging the reaction to this.

Alexei is silent for a moment. “Maybe medicine, like Yelizaveta.” He’s fairly sure he doesn’t have a head for the technical science that being a doctor would require. Since childhood, he’d always done better in sports and physical activities than anything requiring him to retain vast quantities of information. With an NHL career appearing inevitable by the time he was in high school, he’d not tried all that hard to keep his grades higher than absolutely necessary. It had backfired spectacularly. After the accident, he’d realized that getting into a decent college would be almost impossible, and had essentially given up without trying.

“You’d be an awesome doctor,” Kent says, smiling. “Your bedside manner alone would cure people.”

“Maybe,” Alexei allows.

“I’m serious.” The smile grows. “You’re great with people. You charmed my whole graduating class like it was nothing, and I haven’t seen Pavlo talk that much with anybody since he got here, even other Russian speakers. You’ve got mad people skills, man.”

They’ve run out of college town to walk through and are passing through multi-story homes and businesses. A park runs along their left, and Alexei can hear children and birds shrieking in the distance.

In reply to Kent, he says, “I have a lot of practice make small talk and be charming with strangers. Hockey team was easy. I like hockey, they like hockey, we get along.”

Kent rolls his eyes and says, “You don’t have to bring yourself down like that. You know I’ll like you whether you’re awesome or you suck, right?”

Alexei does know. He wishes he didn’t. It makes keeping a necessary distance between them hard.

He doesn’t realize he’s been quiet for too long until he sees that they’ve left the park behind. He waits for Kent to follow up on the comment, ask for some kind of response, but Kent doesn’t. Instead, Kent picks up a commentary of the area they’re walking through, pointing out places he’s visited or historical landmarks he’s learned about.

They’ve just passed a laundromat when Kent suddenly grabs his arm and slams to a halt. “Are you hungry?” he asks. And before Alexei can even speak, Kent goes on, “The correct answer is ‘yes.’”

Alexei looks left, across the street. There’s a solitary, three-story brick building sitting there, with evenly-spaced windows all framed by deep green shutters. A matching green restaurant entryway has been built into the bottom half of the building. The only writing anywhere to indicate the establishment isn’t just an elaborate apartment building entrance is gold lettering that simply says, _Fat Belly’s._

Alexei stares at it. “It looks closed.”

Kent shakes his head and looks up and down the street before tugging Alexei across. “They opened at eleven. Come on, you’ll love it.”

Inside the establishment, Alexei has an immediate flashback to the bar they met up at in Hell’s Kitchen. The only difference is that this place has no booths, is covered in wood paneling, and some of the food is apparently Irish-themed. There are only a few other people here, two at a table in the back and one at the far end of the bar.

Kent’s got a big grin on his face as he watches Alexei take it all in. “Awesome, right?”

“I’m starting to see trend, with you,” Alexei replies. “You want sit at bar, or table?”

They get seats at the bar. Alexei’s glad to be off his feet; his knee was starting to twinge from all the walking they’ve been doing. When the bartender comes to give them menus and ask about drinks, he pauses mid-spiel and squints at Kent.

Kent raises an eyebrow.

The bartender—college kid, dyed blond hair, dark eyes behind thick glasses—sucks in a breath. “Oh,” he sputters. “Uh.”

Kent grins.

“Holy shit,” the bartender says under his breath. He squares his shoulders and asks, “Can I, uh, get you anything to drink?”

Kent orders a Miller Light and makes Alexei order a locally brewed beer. He also signs a coaster for the bartender and leans over the bar for a selfie.

“If you could wait to post that until after we’ve left, I’d really appreciate it,” Kent says once the photo is taken. “I’m trying to keep a low profile today.”

The bartender’s gaze flickers to Alexei, a question there, but he doesn’t pursue it. He drops the phone into his pocket and says, “No problem, man. We get Falconers in here all the time. So, can I get you guys anything to eat?”

Kent and Alexei order a buffalo pizza to share, and get distracted by a football game playing on the medium-sized flat screen behind the bar. Kent, possessing the ravenous hunger of professional athlete, eats most of the pizza and drinks more water than beer. The bartender doesn’t bother them at all. Neither does anyone else in the pub.

When they finish the pizza, Kent sucks the sauce off his fingers.

“Use napkin. What are you, five?” Alexei complains.

Kent responds by sucking the entirety of his middle finger into his mouth, and then popping it back out to flip Alexei off.

Then he orders a side of bacon cheese fries.

“What happen to eating clean this season?”

“Shut up and try these, they’re gonna change your life.”

Kent doesn’t let them linger at the bar. They pay for their drinks and their food—with Kent letting Alexei pay for himself, this time—and head outside. It’s already past five PM and while the light’s not close to fading, it is becoming recognizably evening.

“We have to get there early,” Kent says as they start down the street. Unlike before, he’s looking at street signs and checking his phone. “We’re already a little late, though.”

Alexei’s knee is feeling better after the rest. He’d rather not walk halfway across town, though. He doesn’t want to reach a point where he has to start hiding a limp. “Get where early?”

“We’ll be okay. It’s only a five minute walk.”

Since that’s clearly all the information Alexei is going to get, he just follows along. A five minute walk is more than fine.

They come upon the river shortly after, and cross a footbridge to get to the far side. The water is a muddy green color but looks scenic in the fading light. The pathways are brick and white stone. Occasionally, a gondola will pass by on the water below.

“They give tours,” Kent says, pointing at one. “If you do nothing else in Providence, you _have_ to take one, they’re great. I tried to get one today, but they’re completely booked. If you’re ever back here, though, and you decide you wanna go, call me up and I will drop _everything_.”

Alexei laughs, but somehow he doesn’t doubt that Kent is entirely serious.

The farther they walk, the more people Alexei notices gathering around. Parking lots along the waterfront are filling up with cars and bikes. Families are streaming into the restaurants and claiming patches of grass along the riverbank. When he looks at Kent, Kent looks back at him and grins.

“Outdoor concert?” Alexei guesses. They’ve come upon a wide half-circle lined with broad stone steps and grass. Most of the people have gathered here.

“Nope. Better. Just trust me.”

They find a place to sit on the stone steps and camp there. Soon the footpaths and seating areas on both sides of the river are full of spectators, for what looks like a full city block in both directions. Everyone’s attention seems to be on the water. Alexei hadn’t paid much attention before, but he now notices a long row of concrete blocks in the middle of the river, all with enormous unlit fire pits welded atop them.

He points to the river installations. “Are those going to be lit?” It’s after five thirty and the sun has set. By six it will be dark. “Why they are lighting bonfires? Is it festival? City anniversary?”

Kent huffs a laugh and checks his watch. “Tell you what. They’re gonna start in about thirty minutes, and I really don’t want to spoil the surprise, so if you can wait, I promise I’ll explain it afterwards. It’s worth the wait.”

Alexei shrugs. “Okay.”

Twenty minutes passes by quickly. What’s left of the daylight burns out and leaves them in darkness, although the lamps from nearby cafes and streetlamps lining a footbridge a short distance away keep them out of a pitch black night. People are crammed into the area now. It’s standing-room only.

Suddenly, a commotion draws the attention of the crowd to someplace across the river. There’s only a brilliant glow through the dense trees to indicate something worth seeing. Alexei waits, and soon a procession of men and women—some young, many old or middle-aged, many dressed in military garb—comes into view. Each person is carrying thick, burning torches down to the river. The procession moves through a space in the gathered crowd and lines up along the paths and the footbridges, until they have formed an enormous ring of fire around the river. It lights up the night and streaks the surface of the water with ribbons of burning orange and white.

Meanwhile, boats have begun to appear, all of them manned by people dressed in black. They carry lit torches that they use to ignite the bonfires. On the other side of the river, a band begins to play the American national anthem. When Alexei squints, he can see that the musicians are all in military uniform.

Despite the throngs of people gathered around the river, a hush has fallen upon the crowd, as though the occasion itself and the lighting of the torches is somehow sacred. Alexei feels caught in its spell, mesmerized by the flames that roar through the dry wood and spit sparks as they leap for the darkened sky.

When all the bonfires are lit, the crowd applauds. The band finishes its song, and its members stand and bow to the audience.

As the torch-bearers extinguish their torches and leave the waterfront, Alexei leans forward on his knees to marvel at the glow that has overtaken the water, which is now reflecting a deep blue sky and makes the glow of the fire appear like messily smeared neon paint.

He feels Kent mirror him, his elbows propped on his knees. They’ve been pushed together from the crowds of people filling the wide stone steps on either side, and when Kent leans forward, their shoulders brush. “So?” Kent asks. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” Alexei replies. He glances at Kent, whose eyes are glittering with the firelight and whose angular face has been smoothed to a touchable softness in the orange glow. His hair no longer looks like sunlight, but spun gold. A little breathless from the sight of him, Alexei asks, “Are you going tell me what it is?”

Kent grins. “Waterfire. It’s an art installation. They only light it about ten to fifteen times a year, so we got lucky today. This is the Salute to Veterans, hence the uniforms.”

Alexei nods. “Is very impressive.” He looks back out at the water. “Is event over, now?”

Laughing, Kent gets to his feet and brushes dirt and leaves off his ass. “Hell no. There’s gonna be craft booths and music and shit for the next three hours. You game?”

Even if he’d wanted to, Alexei would find it impossible to say ‘no’ to that bright-eyed smile. “Of course,” he says, and starts to climb to his feet.

An unexpected spark of pain in his knee makes him grunt and falter. In an instant, Kent is grabbing his arm and shoulder to steady him. It’s humiliating how much Alexei finds he needs it. He tries to put weight on the knee again and gets another bone-deep jolt, like his bones are grinding against each other. It’s nothing he hasn’t felt before, after a day of pushing himself too far, but it’s worse than he’s felt in a while. He should have seen this coming: the overnight on the bus, the uncomfortable motel bed, all the time he spent walking around yesterday compounded with how much walking he did today, with only minimum rest and stretching in between…

He should have seen this coming. He should have prevented it. He should have _hidden_ it.

Kent’s face has gone pale. “It’s your knee, isn’t it?”

Alexei waves him off. “It’s fine. Muscles just tired, happens sometimes.”

Rather than be placated, Kent’s face creases in guilt. “It’s because we’ve been walking all over Providence, isn’t it? Shit. I didn’t even think about it. That’s my bad.” His lips purse decisively. “Come on, we’ll get a cab back to the hotel.”

“Kent, no. It’s fine.” Alexei tests the knee again and finds, thank God, that it’s just a bad ache, not debilitating pain. He stands up straight, uncomfortable though it is. “I can walk.”

“You almost fell over just standing up—”

“Because I’m surprised to feel it. Muscles just tired,” he repeats. “I’m fine.” He can’t stand how Kent’s looking at him, like he thinks that if he lets go, Alexei’s going to crumple in a heap. Alexei is damaged, but he’s not glass, dammit. He smiles and tries to tug his arm free of Kent’s grip. “Little twinge is okay. I can walk. Come on.”

But Kent is shaking his head. “It’s not okay, not if you’re aggravating a knee injury. Pain means the join is overworked. Walking on it will make it worse. You have to rest it, ice it, you can’t—”

_—put so much stress on it, Alyosha. You have to give it time to heal, you can’t rush your recovery._

_—be on the ice right now, kid. Doctor’s orders. Come sit on the bench, be our cheering squad, huh?_

_—play professional hockey, Mr. Mashkov. Your knee is too damaged to take that kind of continuous stress. I’m sorry._

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do!” Alexei barks. “Don’t fucking tell me what I can’t do!”

Several people nearby have turned to stare. Kent is staring, too, wide-eyed. Shocked.

Guilt floods Alexei. He looks away. “Sorry. I… _Sorry_. I’m not mean to yell.”

There’s a long and tense silence from Kent. “Just don’t do it again, okay?” he says at last. He sounds like he’s struggling to get the words out, and _God_ , what has Alexei done? But Kent soldiers on, his voice more confident as he adds, “And… I’m sorry, too. For not listening to you.”

Alexei shakes his head and makes himself look at Kent. Kent’s expression is wary, but unafraid. His hands, still holding Alexei up, are steady; one at Alexei’s back, the other on his arm.

Alexei says, “Is no excuse for I’m yell at you. Kent, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” A soft smile is creeping onto Kent’s face. Alexei is so, so relieved to see it. “For real, though. How’s the knee? Because if you need us to leave so you can rest it, we’ll leave.”

“I don’t want to leave.” Alexei looks down at the joint. It’s just an innocuous little bulge halfway down his pant leg, exactly the same as its opposite, giving no hint to the twisted mess of muscle and repaired bone beneath. It looks so _ordinary_ , all the time, and it even feels that way. Unless he overworks it. Then, he crumples like leaf; no check needed, he goes down on his own. All the rest of him can handle the stress of exercise, of life, of hockey, but it’s that _damn knee_ that takes him down.

After watching Kent fly around the rink yesterday, he feels ashamed to be seen this way.

“I don’t want to leave,” he repeats. He’s talking at the ground because he can’t look Kent in the face. Pathetic.

Kent nods. “Okay. Maybe we can sit some more, though? Give it more time to rest?”

After some consideration, Alexei says, “Yes. That’s good idea.” Meeting Kent’s gaze, he adds, “Maybe we can find place to sit that’s not stairs?”

“Yeah, good call. There’re some benches over there, I’ll bet we can get someone to give up their seat if we look sad enough.” Kent lifts Alexei’s arm over his shoulders and wraps his free arm around Alexei’s waist. “Feel like you can make it over there?”

“I’m still have both legs,” Alexei grumbles. “Can still walk.” He lets Kent lead him down the steps and over to the benches facing the river.

“Looks kinda like a bunny hop, from here,” Kent teases, all shit-eating grin.

“Soon as you let go of me, I’m push you in the river.”

As Kent predicted, the people sitting on the nearest bench are more than willing to give up their spot when they see Alexei hobbling next to Kent. It makes Alexei feel like a damn _invalid_ , having people—having _Kent_ —fawning over him like he can’t move or speak for himself. But a lot of the pain lets up the moment he sits down. And the view is nice. There’s plenty of room on the bench but Kent is pressed right up against him, arms at his sides and hands in his lap—a warm, living presence.

They don’t talk. Kent’s silence is temperate. There’s no weight in it, no indication that he’s waiting for Alexei to talk or explain himself, only the implication that if Alexei were to speak, Kent is ready to listen.

Alexei is starting to recognize Kent’s silences, and to understand what they mean. There are tense silences, the ones that come from Kent being overwhelmed—like he was at the reunion, and in the car afterwards following the revelation of Alexei’s past. There are awkward silences, when Kent has been caught by surprise and is fumbling to react—like when the reporter asked about Kent’s New York date, or when Alexei admitted to being on Instagram.

Finally, there are the soft silences. These silences are the most dangerous, because they are both tactical and kind. In Kent’s uncertain silences, when he’s flustered or nervous or afraid, the empty air seems to fill with all the things he’s not saying. In times like these, when Kent is intentionally quiet for the sake of giving Alexei room to breathe, the only words Alexei can imagine being said are the ones he’s most afraid of speaking out loud.

“At the bar,” he says, breaking the silence because _goddamn_ Kent Parson. “Today, at the bar. Or, just before, maybe. My knee was start hurting. I’m just didn’t say.”

Kent looks at him, still quiet.

“I don’t like… this.” He waves at the bench, at the fact of them sitting there. “I don’t like to be needing help. I don’t…” What else he might have said gets caught in his chest. “Is not what I’m for. Isn’t my _job_.”

Kent frowns, confusion evident. “Your job? You mean… being an escort?”

Alexei shakes his head. He wraps his arms around himself and gazes out at the water. The flames are still going strong, spitting sparks and glowing with embers buried deep within. A thin boat has begun to float down the river. It carries two rowers and a man perched on its prow, the latter clad only in loose-fitting black pants. His breath blows out in the cold night air as he juggles a pair of torches that are lit at both ends. The man’s physique is well-toned and tattooed with flowing black lines, his long hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. He looks elemental, a spirit of heat and fire made flesh to mesmerize spectators with spinning flame. Every moment is deft; so practiced that it has become second nature, yet there is a fierce concentration in his eyes.

“Alexei?”

Alexei wraps his arms tighter around his body and says, “A player who can’t keep feet under him on the ice can defend no one. He is useless.”

“You’re not useless.” Kent’s reply is immediate; a knee-jerk objection.

Alexei snorts.

“You are _not_ useless.”

The vehemence in Kent’s voice is, while flattering, more than Alexei wants to deal with right now. He runs a hand through his hair and rubs the spot between his eyes where a tension headache is forming. “I don’t want argue about it,” he says. “I’m just tell you what I’m feel.”

He _hears_ Kent open his mouth to say more and braces himself, but nothing comes. Diplomatic silence. Alexei grits his teeth, lest he give into the urge to talk again.

He knows that he has successfully waited Kent out when he hears a surrendering sigh. “I could use a beer. If you’re feeling up to it, we can hit the park, see if any breweries have a tent set up and are selling.”

Alexei tests his bad knee by flexing it a few times. It aches, but not nearly as badly as it did before. When he carefully gets to his feet, he winces a little. Kent is watching him closely. Alexei shakes his head, saying, “Is not bad. I can walk. Maybe not for three hours, but is okay.”

“What about climbing stairs?” Kent points to the stone steps that run all the way from the waterfront to the park beyond. There have to be about three flights’ worth.

Alexei glowers at the obstacle. Already the familiar frustration of being so physically limited is creeping back. “We go slow, I guess,” he grumbles. “Is not like you can carry me.”

It’s a joke. It’s a fucking joke, but Kent—goddamn Kent Parson—gets a gleam in his eye. It’s the only warning Alexei has before Kent turns, squats halfway, and pulls Alexei’s arms around his shoulders. “Hop on,” says the three-time Stanley Cup winner who has _clearly_ lost his mind.

Alexei is pressed up against Kent’s back, his face almost in Kent’s hair. Kent smells like sweat and beer and the faint remnants of his cologne. Alexei protests, “I’m weigh almost two hundred pounds.”

Kent shrugs, the muscle bunching in Alexei’s arms, and _oh_. That’s nice. “Yeah, so? I can bench three hundred and squat four-twenty. Two hundred is nothing.” And _that_ is plain fucking sexy. Alexei is reminded of how it felt rolling around with Kent in bed; the weight of him, his solidity, the power in his thighs around Alexei’s hips.

“If you drop me, I’m murder you,” he manages, which just elicits a laugh, and then Kent’s hands dropping to grip the backs of Alexei’s thighs.

“On three. One, two, three!”

Alexei gives a little jump and Kent hauls him up. The result is Alexei getting an honest-to-god piggyback ride from Kent-fucking-Parson.

“Here we go!” Kent makes his way through the milling crowd with Alexei on his back. They draw stares and strange looks, but Kent doesn’t appear to notice, or care. There are more stairs than Alexei originally thought. By the time they reach the top, Kent’s fingers are digging into Alexei’s legs.

“You want to stay up there?” Kent asks, and Christ, he doesn’t even sound that winded. “Enjoy the view?”

“Put me down,” Alexei says. He bites back the addition of “solnyshko” just in time. Just because his heart is pounding from the close proximity doesn’t mean he can get _stupid_. “I’m not going to be reason you can’t pick up stick tomorrow.”

Kent gives Alexei’s thighs a rough squeeze—he’s not _helping_ —and gently lowers Alexei’s feet to the sidewalk. When he turns around, he doesn’t try to steady Alexei or act like he thinks Alexei will fall over, but he _is_ waiting for a confirmation.

Alexei tests the knee and says grudgingly, “Still a little ache. Short walk is okay.”

“Cool,” Kent says. “We’ll make it count. The breweries usually set up over here.”

He starts off down the sidewalk, waving for Alexei to follow. Alexei can still feel where Kent’s fingers gripped his thighs. He can still smell the faded cologne on the back of Kent’s neck, and hear the huff of Kent’s breath as he bore Alexei’s weight up the stairs. These little impressions are nothing compared to his knee, which demands his attention with every step he takes.

And yet it is Kent, not the cautionary signals from his knee, that he follows.


	10. Half Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my love and thanks go to [luckie_dee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckie_dee/profile) for beta reading. <3
> 
> If anyone finds anything in the chapter that they think should be tagged or have warnings for, let me know.

There are indeed a plethora of open-air white tents lined up along the sidewalk running through the park. First and foremost are those representing veterans’ groups, with donation boxes and information pamphlets detailing their work and services. Two of the booths have veteran representatives who’ve lost partial or entire limbs in combat. They seem cheerful enough as they welcome visitors and talk about their organizations. One man has a pant leg sewn up and uses a crutch to get around but he doesn’t appear hindered. Alexei watches him surreptitiously as he and Kent pass by.

After the veterans organizations are the craft and food areas.

“Beer counts as a craft,” Kent jokes as they sample mouthfuls of locally brewed beer. “Mm, wow, that one’s good.”

“If you like craft beer, why you always drink _khuynya_ like Miller Light?”

Kent picks up the bottle for the sample he just threw back and reads the label. “’Cause it’s easier to just order the same beer everywhere than waste ten minutes browsing the menu.”

“You could at least try drink something taste better.”

Kent laughs and puts the bottle back. He waggles his eyebrows at Alexei and asks, “You got some kind of vested interest in how I taste?”

Yes, Alexei thinks, like it’s reflex, which he shouldn’t because this isn’t a place his mind should be going, and also because he knows from experience that he would kiss Kent no matter what he’d been drinking. “No,” he says. “Just think you should be having more self-respect.”

Kent guffaws and calls to one of the people running the booth, asking to buy a bottle of the brew he just tried.

Alexei turns down the offer of one for himself. “Should limit intake,” he says. “In case I’m needing take medication later.”

“Ah.” Kent considers the unopened bottle. “I don’t wanna be rude...”

“No, is okay. Go on, you should enjoy.”

Kent only hesitates for another fraction of a second before cracking the top off and taking a drink.

They keep walking. Alexei enjoys it. There are people and music and noise all around them, street lamps above and bright white lights streaming out of the tents. Sweet smells mix with salty and are whisked away on cool, light breezes. The air has gone crisp and they’ll probably be able to see their breath if it gets much colder. Kent stops at one point to pull on his light jacket, and Alexei zips up his.

“Getting cold?”

“No. I’m okay.”

“Okay. Oh... hey, do you smell that?”

Alexei lifts his nose to the air and breathes deep. “More beer?” It’s sweet and fruity.

Kent grins. “Better. Remember that cafe we met at this morning?”

“Yes. I’m find online. Had good reviews for pie.”

There’s an unsurprised snort from Kent. “Yeah, there’s a reason for that. Did you try any?”

“Yes. Cherry, was very good.”

“Cross your fingers they’ve got peach.”

“Why cross—oh.” They’ve stopped in front of a tent lined with shelving units, all of which are stocked to the brim with breads and pastries. In the center of it, bustling about taking orders and wrapping up donuts and serving cups of hot chocolate, are Beth, Toby, and a blond man Alexei doesn’t know.

There’s a small crowd around the booth. Given what Alexei knows of the food at Bittle’s, he’s not surprised. Combined with the hot chocolate they’re apparently serving for fifty cents a cup, this is definitely the best place to come for an easy snack. Kent and Alexei have to wait their turn to get up to the front. Alexei uses it to check out the selection behind the low table that’s being used as a makeshift service counter. Given his height, he towers over most of the people and has an easy view.

Kent isn’t so lucky. He’s just short enough that he has to crane his neck around people’s heads in order to see.

“You want I’m read labels to you?” Alexei teases. “Or maybe put you on my shoulders?”

“Just tell me if there’s peach pie, I can’t see it.”

Alexei notices an open space in front of a register and nudges Kent, who doesn’t need to be told twice; he darts forward. “Eric!” he says when the blond man has finished handing a small child a cup of hot chocolate. “Please tell me you’ve got peach pie left.”

The blond man—Eric, apparently—goes wide-eyed with surprise. “Kent! I thought y’all would be long gone by now. Don’t you have a game in Dallas tomorrow?”

“Nope, Saturday.”

“Oh. Well, it’s good to see you. I hear you came by this morning, bothered my staff.” It sounds like an admonishment but he’s wearing a smile.This man is _chirping_ Kent Parson. “How was the pie?”

Alexei has a sudden flashback to Beth handing over the paper bags and saying, “There’s a pie in there from the boss.”

“Tomato-y,” Kent replies. “Pavlo liked it.”

“I’m glad to hear that. He looked good at the game yesterday. Is he settling in, then?”

“Yeah. He might end up on my line or the second string, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

Eric smiles conspiratorially. “I’ll pass the news along to Jack.”

“God, don’t. Chesney will kill me if he finds out I’m spilling my guts about team gossip in exchange for pie.”

Eric laughs. It’s a bright, sunny sound, and the way his smile crinkles his eyes and puts a dimple in his cheek is enchanting. He’s obviously not from New England. Alexei is still getting the hang of hearing American accents, but he’s fairly sure Eric’s accent is Southern. “I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Parson, but we’re all out of pie.”

“Peach pie?” Kent asks hopefully.

“All pie.”

“Well, sh-shoot.” Kent bites off his curse with a guilty look at the ten-year-old beside him, serenely sipping her hot chocolate. Alexei muffles a laugh.

“Okay,” Kent continues. “Peach-wise, what’s left?”

“Tarts,” Eric says immediately.

“I’ll take three.” Kent’s already got his wallet open. “Nah, you know what, five. I’m greedy. Alexei, you want anything? You gotta jump on this tart action early if you want it, it goes fast.”

Although Alexei has been standing there the whole time, Eric only just now looks at him. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you here with Kent?”

“Yes. He is showing me around Providence.”

Eric squints at him. “By any chance, were you in the cafe this morning, too?”

“Yes. Beth gave me cherry pie, is very good. And Toby let me keep novel from shelf, I hope is okay.”

“More than okay!” Eric goes back to smiling and waves behind him at the delicious display. “Can I get you anything? Kent’s right, every time we get a booth at Waterfire we sell out of most everything fast.”

Alexei scans the selection. “Those are called Pecan Twists? Can I have two, please?”

Eric smiles and goes to fetch them. “Pee-KAHN, did you say?”

Kent groans and mutters under his breath, “Oh, come on.”

Alexei doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he dutifully replies, “Yes, pecan.”

Eric’s smile widens. “I think you and I are going to get along just fine, Mr...?”

“Mashkov. Alexei Mashkov. It’s good to meet you.”

“You as well.” They shake hands over the counter and Eric finishes neatly wrapping up the pastries in a brown paper bag. Alexei pays for them, and as he does, Eric calls for Beth to bring over two cups of hot chocolate. He waves off Alexei’s offer of a dollar to pay for them.

“Just a bit of good marketing,” he says with a wink, handing over the cups. “And a hope that being friends with Kent doesn’t mean you pick up his bad habits.”

Kent takes the hot chocolate and throws his free hand in the air. “PEE-can!” he says. “It’s an accent, not a personality defect!”

“Whatever lets you sleep at night, Mr. Parson,” Eric replies, and Alexei has to laugh at that.

“I’m work on him,” Alexei offers.

“I did this to myself,” Kent grumbles. His annoyance would be more convincing if he didn’t look like he was squashing a smile. “Eric, you’ll also be happy to know he’s a Falcs fan.”

“Are you really?” Kent was right, Eric looks very pleased. “Did you see the game yesterday?”

“Yes. Was very good game. Changes to second line are working well.”

Eric nods earnestly. “I think so, too. Jack was worried they’d pull Thirdy off his line, but they’re such a good team I don’t know how the coaches could have justified a move like that.”

“Would not have made sense,” Alexei agrees. He feels like he’s missing something here, though he can’t tell what. He realizes that while he’s standing here chatting, other customers are eyeing the displays. Some have their wallets out. Alexei gestures to the other people and says to Eric, “Sorry, I don’t mean to keep you.”

Eric shakes his head and hands him the bag of pecan twists. “It’s no trouble. I’m always happy to meet more Falcs fans. Do you live ‘round here? I’m usually in the shop first thing in the morning. If you liked the cherry pie, I can guarantee you’ll like the cranberry tarts.”

Alexei laughs. “You are good businessman.”

Eric laughs, too. “Honestly, I just like feeding people.”

“Maybe I drop by tomorrow, before I’m going home,” Alexei says. “I live in Philly. Just in town for game.”

“That’s quite a ways to come for a preseason game.”

Alexei doesn’t let his gaze stray to Kent. “I’m big hockey fan.”

“You must be, if you came all the way here from Philly,” Eric agrees, side-eyeing Kent. “Well, if you’re ever back in Providence during regular season, make sure you stop by the shop. We’ve always got something new on the seasonal menu and I’d hate for you to miss out.”

“I’ll make sure to do so.”

Kent pays for his peach tarts and they leave the tent, wiggling past people already rushing to fill their spot. Alexei looks back over his shoulder at the small crowd. The café is clearly a familiar presence here. At his side, Kent digs out a tart and bites off half. “Aw fuff, tha’s goo.” The words are almost indistinguishable.

“Don’t talk with mouth full.”

Rather than listen, Kent holds up the rest of the tart. “Try it. You haff to, they’re so goo.”

There are teeth marks in the flaky golden crust, and one of the peaches has been bitten completely in half. “You already bite.”

Kent somehow manages to give him a look that says plainly, _And since you’ve had my dick in your mouth, this matters how?_ But he stuffs the pastry in his mouth. “Your loff.”

“I don’t understand a word you say.”

Bits of pastry go flying as Kent laughs. Alexei throws up his arm defensively and shoves Kent away. “Stop, you get all over me!” Kent just laughs more, leading Alexei to push him even further. He keeps his distance until Kent has finished chewing and swallowing everything in his mouth. “You are so gross,” Alexei tells him.

Kent smiles like this is a compliment. “Buddy, I spend ninety percent of my life surrounded by dirty jock straps, sweaty feet, chewed-up mouth guards, and a group of guys whose idea of a joke is to squirt ketchup on someone’s shoe. Of _course_ I’m gross.”

“Sounds like heaven,” Alexei says, wistful. He remembers all of that: nasty locker room smells and crappy teenage pranks and the occasional horror of grabbing someone else’s jock strap by mistake. It was all part of the culture, all part of being on the team. He misses it. He misses it so much.

He doesn’t mean for his words to be cruel. But Kent is looking mildly reproached, like he’s worried he just put his foot in his mouth, so Alexei changes subjects. “You’re very friendly with Eric. How you know him? Why is he give you strange pies?”

If anything, Kent looks more awkward. “Oh. He, uh. It’s kind of a long story?”

“Give me short version.”

“I don’t think there is one,” Kent says. “But okay. Eric’s a friend of a friend, and a huge Falcs fan. He’s also the best baker in Providence. So, when the Aces have a game here, we always get breakfast from Eric’s place, and he gives me weird pies. I think it’s a passive-aggressive Southerner way of expressing his undying hate, but I’m afraid that if I ask, he’ll just put hot sauce in my pie one day.”

“He seem like nice guy, I don’t think he do that.”

“That nice guy played hockey with Jack Zimmermann in college. He’s on a first-name basis with most of the Falcs. He can prank with the best of them, believe me.”

Alexei stops in his tracks and looks back over his shoulder. He can barely see Eric through the throng of people, just occasional glimpses of blond hair and a summery smile.

Kent is watching Alexei watch Eric. “If you hit _Bittle’s_ at the right time,” he says, “there’s a good chance you’ll run into Zimmermann getting a pie to take to practice.”

Alexei swallows. It seems he can’t even pick a place to get breakfast without walking into NHL territory.

“Probably not tomorrow,” Kent adds. “I think the Falcs are flying out to Calgary tonight. But it’s something to keep in mind, next time you’re here for a game.”

 _Next time_. Getting out of Philly, out of his routine, and out of his comfort zone has been hard. He hasn’t slept well in two days. His knee is acting up, the worst it has in months. Being back at the rink and watching Kent play yesterday stirred up old pain that he’s managed to ignore for a decade. But if he’s honest... yesterday’s game wasn’t bad. This morning with the Aces wasn’t bad. Walking with Kent through Providence, talking about family and careers, about old dreams and going to college...it makes the world outside Alexei’s narrow, broken path feel _possible_ , like it hasn’t in a long, long time.

But it’s that encroaching feeling of, _Maybe it’d be okay, if I let this warmth in_ , that is starting to feel like a noose.

“Right,” Alexei says, like the bottom hasn’t just dropped out of his stomach. “Next time.”

Kent grins. Alexei manages a smile in return.

They don’t stay much longer. Alexei wants to, but the ache in his knee gets worse and he starts favoring the leg. Kent doesn’t even pretend not to notice, although he lets Alexei be the one to concede defeat and request that they depart. Back on the main road, a few cabs have gathered like hopeful pigeons along the sidewalk.

“Where are you staying?” Kent asks, and when Alexei names the motel and the part of town it’s in, Kent says, “That’s closer than our hotel. We’ll drop you off first.”

An uncharacteristic bout of nerves strikes Alexei the moment they’ve gotten in a cab and shut its doors. Out his window, Providence flies by. Beside him, Kent sits happy and warm, one elbow on the door while he checks the many ignored messages on his phone. For once, Alexei is uncomfortable in the silence. They’re headed to Alexei’s motel, a place with privacy and no nosy paparazzi in the bushes to catch anything they do.

Alexei has to admit to himself now that this has been a date. A friendly one, certainly, but going on dates is his _job_ and he knows a fucking outing with romantic undertones when he fucking goes on one. Just because Alexei hasn’t had his hands all over Kent the way he did on the last two doesn’t mean he’s stayed distant. He’s done anything _but_.

He doesn’t know what to do.

The cab pulls up to Alexei’s motel. After paying the driver for his portion of the fare, Alexei makes himself turn to Kent and smile. “Today was good day. Thank you for show me around city.”

Kent smiles back. It’s genuine. “Any time, man, seriously. I had a blast. It was good to see you again. I can’t believe we ran into each other.”

“It was good to see you, too.” Alexei cracks the door open and sticks a leg out. “Good luck in game on Saturday.”

Kent’s smile becomes blinding. “I’ll get you a goal, how’s that?”

Alexei can’t listen to this. He can’t. “Yes, okay.” He gets out and puts a hand on the door, ready to close it.

“Whoa, wait!” Kent is leaning across the back seat, phone out. “Give me your number. I’ll text you the next time I’m in New York.”

Alexei… imagines that. He imagines Kent texting him, not just when he’s in New York but from all over North America. He imagines watching streams of Kent play and getting texts afterwards, things like _lol my penalty minutes just went way up_ and _please tell me how awesome i was with that goal 2nd period_. He imagines meeting up with Kent again, in New York or Philly or Providence, snatching up little minutes of free time around Kent’s busy hockey schedule, seeing bruises and evidence of pulled muscles and sprains from the games he’s been in.

He imagines letting himself out of a client’s hotel room with smears of lube still up his ass and seeing Kent’s name on his phone as soon as he turns it back on. He imagines sitting through dull brunches with homophobes while Kent’s pre-game texts burn a hole in his pocket.

He imagines getting a text after the Dallas game that says, _that game-winner was for you._

And even if they get lucky, and no one ever photographs them together and connects “Alexei Mashkov, washed out NHL hopeful” with the website listing of “Alecksi Moskhov, Russian gentleman for $300 an hour,” Alexei will still be going about his mediocre daily life and trying to be happy for Kent’s success when he’s just… dying inside.

Kent’s still watching him. “Or I can give you my number?” he asks hopefully.

Alexei’s knee hurts and his heart hurts and he can’t do this. “No,” he says.

“No?” The word doesn’t seem to compute.

“Kent, no.” He tries to say it gently, but with finality. This needs to end, now. “Get back safe, okay?” And he shuts the cab door.

Turning and walking across the lot towards his hotel room makes his knee joint burn with each impact of foot on pavement.

Behind him, the other cab door opens. Alexei walks faster. He hears Kent saying to the driver, “Just wait, I promise I’m good for it.” And then there’s footsteps and Kent calling, “Alexei!”

Alexei gets to his motel door and digs into his pants pocket. He hasn’t even gotten his wallet open when Kent catches up.

“What the hell, man?”

“Just go, Kent.” A strip of blue and white lurks between Alexei’s credit card and grocery store points card. He tugs it out and slips it into the card reader. The lock buzzes but doesn’t open; he’s got the card upside down. Swearing, he flips it over and tries again. Now it clicks, and turns green.

Kent doesn’t leave. “And I reiterate, what the hell, man? You just slammed a car door in my face.”

“Clearly, hint was not strong enough.”

“Okay, time out. Ten _seconds_ ago we were fine, and now you’re a dick? Did I miss something?”

“Yes.” Alexei shoves the door open. “You miss part where date is over. I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

It’s meant to just get Kent off his doorstep. But Kent’s lip curls and the shadows on his face, thrown there by the street lamps, suddenly become darker. “Fuck you,” he says quietly, voice raw and hurt. “I didn’t pay for today.”

Alexei knows he’s crossing the line from dismissive to cruel. “No,” he says. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, tell me what’s going on. Did I do something? Say something? I’ll fix it.”

Alexei sighs, shakes his head. “Is nothing to fix. Is nothing to start.” He waves a hand between them. “Kent, where you think this is going?”

“Where do I—Are you actually serious?” Kent is gaping. “I thought we were getting to be friends!”

“I can’t be your friend.”

Out in the parking lot, the cab’s horn blares suddenly, a clear indication that the driver is losing patience. Kent clenches his jaw. “Hold that thought,” he says tightly, and then spins on his heel and marches back to the cab. He pulls out his wallet, yanks out his credit card, and opens the front door to hand it to the driver.

When he comes back to Alexei, he demands, “Tell me why you can’t be my friend.”

“You know why.”

“Spell it out for me.”

“You don’t want hear it.”

“I think I’ll decide what bullshit I do and don’t wanna hear, thanks.”

Alexei scoffs. “Bullshit,” he says. “Fine, I spell out. I am _escort_. My job is strangers pay me for company, sometimes sex.”

The way Kent crosses his arms and says defiantly, “I don’t care,” makes Alexei want to laugh.

“You will.”

“Then that’s my problem.”

“No, is my problem when you decide you like me better than friend.” He has to remember to keep his voice down; they’re still in the open doorway of a ground floor motel room, with a cab not twenty feet away. Voices can echo across a parking lot and there’s plenty of light to see them by. Going into the motel room would be worse. There’s nothing more incriminating than two people going into a motel room together, and moreover, then Kent would be _in_ Alexei’s motel room and twice as difficult to remove. The farther away Kent is from Alexei’s personal space, the better.

“Okay, f-first, you don’t know that’s going to happen,” Kent says. Already a blush is blooming on his cheeks and ears. He’s so painfully transparent. “Second, that’s still my problem, except it wouldn’t _be_ a problem, because I don’t care. Did it look like I cared before, at the reunion or at the bar?”

“You’re not think about it then. You will.” Alexei steps closer and lowers his voice. He hears Kent suck in a breath and hold it. “You think about it when you see other people’s bruises on me. You think about it when you smell other man’s cologne on me, other woman’s perfume. You think about it when you ask me to hang out and I say, no, I can’t. I have date.”

Kent is pink but he stands his ground. “It’s just a job. I know that.”

“If is just a job, why are we here? Why you stay when you’re not pay me? If is just job, you not care.”

Kent looks away. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it is _not_ just job. Is no good if I be your friend, or anything, and have this job.”

Kent throws his hands wide in exasperation. “So get a different job!”

And now, Alexei laughs. “What _job_? You have any idea how hard is getting job in your country? On foreign VISA? With high school education? With my bad English? This is best job I have in America. This is most money I make ever in my life. So long I stay fit, no one care about bad English.”

“What about school, then? You said maybe you’d study medicine, like your sister—”

“ _Stop.”_ Alexei whips a hand up between them, his mirth melting into a glare. “Just _stop_. Stop trying change my life. Stop _push_ me. I don’t want be _push_.”

“I’m not trying to push!” Kent even takes a step back, giving Alexei his space. “I’m just saying, you’re capable of so much more! Alexei, you can do _more_ —”

“There is no more!” Alexei shouts, and this time he doesn’t rein his voice in. “This is all I get, you understand? Three hundred dollars per hour, and I am smile at whoever is pay. I don’t sign million-dollar contract, I don’t skate in big stadium, I don’t play in Stanley Cup finals, I don’t do _anything special_. I am this, and this is all I get.”

Kent doesn’t say anything.

“You wake up every day, do something special. You not understand, how hard it is. How hard, be so close, but have nothing.”

Kent swallows. Licks his lips. Takes a soft, unsteady breath. “What do you want me to do?”

 _Stop being Kent Parson, for one moment, so it doesn’t hurt so much to be with you_. “Get back safe to hotel, and play good game in Dallas.”

There’s a tight, watery hitch in Kent’s next breath. For an awful moment, Alexei thinks Kent is going to cry—but Kent sucks in another breath and draws himself up straight. “Okay.” His voice is steady even if his face is blotchy and his eyes are wet. “Okay.” Rather than leave, though, he pulls his wallet back out and flips through it until he finds a business card. “Here.”

“I can’t be your fri—”

“ _Fine_. Fine, I get it. But if you need anything. Bail money, a lawyer, a plane ticket to Russia.”

Alexei raises an eyebrow and doesn’t take the card. “You think I get arrested?”

“I think I don’t know your damn life at all,” Kent replies. “But I’m saying, if you need help, _call me_. Don’t make me hear about it afterwards and think about how I could have done something.”

It’s a link. A connection, one Alexei shouldn’t have. Because much the same way Kent can’t stop reaching out to him, Alexei has proven weak to following along.

He takes the card. “Just emergency.”

“That’s okay.” Kent shoves his wallet into his pocket and looks over at the cab, still sitting in the parking lot waiting. “Guess I should… go.” He looks so lonely, standing there with sadness etched into the lines of his face. Alexei knows it’s for the best, knows this is what has to happen, but still.

“I’m sorry I’m hurt you. Is not what I want.”

Kent doesn’t speak, just nods.

“Thank you for show me Providence.”

This seems to be enough for Kent, because he chokes out, “Yeah. See you, Alexei,” and ducks away to head back to the cab. He doesn’t look back as he opens the door and gets in, just pulls it shut and stares out the opposite window as the driver puts the vehicle into gear and drives away.

Alexei is left in the open doorway of an empty motel room in Providence, Rhode Island, holding a bag of pastries and a business card with Kent’s name and phone number on one side. He vehemently doesn’t let himself think about how the pain in his chest feels as deep and shattering as the day his knee had broken on the ice.

—

Alexei checks out of the hotel that night and takes another overnight bus back to Philadelphia. The seats are compact and he doesn’t get a spot next to a window, so he sleeps sitting upright and has an impossible time getting comfortable. He eats the pecan twists; they’re delicious. He thinks he should have stayed through until the morning, just for the chance to eat more of Eric’s food. He’d promised he’d stop by, and now he won’t.

It only occurs to him right then that he left the mystery novel in the bag of pastries in Kent’s hotel room.

Fuck.

He puts in his earbuds and turns on some music and does his best to sleep. Even if he sleeps like shit, every minute spent unconscious is better than remembering his time in Providence.

—

Friday morning hits like a train. Two days out of his routine means it’s harder to get back into it, especially with his knee still profoundly annoyed from all the time spent sightseeing around Providence and sleeping on bad mattresses and crammed into overnight buses not built for men his size. He forgoes the usual trip to the pool and does stretches and floor exercises in his living room instead.

After that, he takes care of all the housework he should have done to prepare for the weekend rush. All his nice clothes have to be washed and aired out, and organized specifically for each job. He’s behind on his skincare routines and starts them back up immediately. He pays special attention to his hands; the nails have to be trimmed and the skin moisturized. Nothing kills a first impression like a client wincing at the roughness of his hands. There used to be callouses on his palms from years of handling a stick and doing intensive weight work in the gym. Now his hands are just thick and big, good for opening doors and pulling out chairs but not so much for dominating the ice.

Friday comes and goes without Alexei checking the NHL app or turning the TV on once.

On Saturday morning, he ignores his phone’s alerts for the start of the Dallas game and goes to the pool for a short swim. Then he gets his coffee and donut—although neither compare to the brew and delectable pastries from _Bittle’s._

He has a date that night and his best suit is at the dry-cleaners, so he goes to pick that up. Mr. Kuznetsov scolds him gently for being so late to retrieve it.

“Sorry,” Alexei says as he swipes his card and punches his PIN into the reader. He continues in Russian, “I went out of town for a few days. Unexpected trip.”

“Everything is okay, I hope?”

“Yeah. Just had to take care of something.”

Mr. Kuznetsov clips Alexei’s receipt to his dry cleaning and passes it over the counter. “Inna made _olivie_ last night, too much for us to eat. Do you want some?”

Twenty minutes later, Alexei is back home and sighing in bliss at the first spoonful of diced pickle, potato, egg, and bologna doused in homemade mayo. It’s not the healthiest lunch, but each bite is a memory—mostly of all the times he found it packed in his bag after hockey practice, the cheapest and easiest meal his mother could send with him. The salty taste of egg and mayo mixed with sweet pickles is wrapped up in memories of cold cheeks and heavy skates on his feet.

He finishes quickly and washes the empty Tupperware container in the sink.

The Aces win against Dallas, 5-3. Alexei finds out by accident when he unlocks his phone and finds a notification waiting for him. He frowns at it for a long time, and then goes into Settings to turn off all messages from the NHL app.

At six, he gets ready for his date, and at seven-thirty, he meets her at her hotel.

Olesya Guseva is a thirty-two year old B-list film star in from Russia. She’s been doing a guest-starring role on an American TV show for the last few months. Now that the show has wrapped for its current season—and permanently for Olesya, as her character was brutally murdered in the finale—she’s attending a charity event to promote the show, herself, and the poverty crisis in America. Alexei meets her at the door to her apartment suite.

Rarely is he so stunned by someone’s beauty in-person. Olesya is elegant, poised, and utterly charming. Upon introducing himself, he kisses her hand. She’s the sort of person for whom that treatment is warranted.

“How long have you been living in America?” Olesya asks him on the drive to the event. They’re in the back seat of a limo, and Olesya has already broken out the liquor. Because Alexei is a gentleman, he takes it upon himself to pour them each a glass of gin. Olesya holds hers up in a toast and Alexei clinks it.

“Six years now, coming up on seven,” Alexei replies. It feels so _good_ to speak in fluent Russian. “It was a pain in the ass getting over here, believe me.”

Olesya nods fervently. “Oh god, tell me about it. My lawyer had me sign so much legal paperwork just to get a working visa over here I lost track of it all.” She sips her drink and asks, “What do you miss most about home?”

 _What_ does he miss, not _if_ he misses anything. It’s something that any international traveler understands if they’re away from familiar comforts long enough: no matter how acclimatized a person can become to the culture they’ve adopted, there will always be things about the culture that shaped them that will sate them to their bones, and be missed just as much.

“The food,” Alexei says. “I love American food, I really do, but some days, I just—I would kill for a real Russian breakfast. I miss real _kasha_ like my own mother. It’s impossible to find in America, even in a place like New York. I have to visit this one restaurant in Queens just for something that tastes authentic.”

Olesya laughs. “I remember the first time I was here and ordered ‘porridge’ for breakfast because I’d heard it was similar. I remember room service arriving with it and I was just like, ‘What the hell is this?’”

Alexei takes a swallow of gin and adds, “And _kompot_. Literally nothing tastes like _kompot_. I could just load up on fruit at the grocer and make it myself every week, but...” He waves a hand.

Olesya nods. “Who has that kind of time, right?”

From the front of the limo, the driver politely announces, “We’ve arrived.”

Alexei puts his drink aside and gets out. He comes around the limo and opens her door for her, offering a hand as she steps onto the sidewalk. He’s struck again by how she radiates elegance. Olesya’s midnight blue gown is pure satin and lace, with a modest heart-shaped neckline and demure lace sleeves that fall off her shoulders. It manages to be simultaneously pure sophistication and sexy as hell.

Alexei’s suit is a soft grey and his tie a deep wine red. He knows, without question, that as they walk up the steps to the event hall, he looks _good_ on Olesya’s arm.

The Haier Building’s exterior looks like a courthouse, all grey brick and pillars. Inside is much the same, but tonight it has been transformed with gold lighting and cream-colored cloth banners adorning the walls. There are tables for dinner and a stage for speakers, but all of that is secondary to the mingling that is currently occupying those in attendance.

Alexei guides her to the event host who is taking names and checking in the guests. Olesya is identified as herself, and Alexei as her plus-one.

As they walk into the crowd, Olesya nabs a glass of champagne off a passing tray and murmurs, “You’ll help me with my English, won’t you? I know I just did a TV bit, but it was all memorization. My conversation skills are still pretty bad.”

“Of course. I’m probably not much better, though.”

“Well,” Olesya says, smiling up at him. “If English fails us both, at least we’ll have each other to talk to.”

Alexei smiles back. “Excellent point.” Her head comes up to Alexei’s shoulder. He’d been worried, when he first met her, that the height difference would annoy her, but she had seemed to find it charming. ‘All my co-workers are tall, but they’re not _Russian_ tall,’ she’d said. ‘I like a man who towers over me.’

Olesya’s English is better than she thinks. Alexei doesn’t have to help her that much, and honestly he thinks she becomes flustered when expressing herself more than she needs to. Alexei knows that his knowledge of American cultural context gives him an edge in English conversations that Olesya doesn’t have, but in terms of grammar mastery, she exceeds him.

He doesn’t mind. Olesya does most of the talking. This is her event, anyway. He’s here as an anchor; a warm body filling the spot next to her so she doesn’t feel quite so alone.

The night is blandly eventful: hands are shaken; speeches are given; money is donated; backs are patted for the show of monetary support; and those in attendance submit to photo ops left and right. Alexei stays for most of them, a generic smile on his face, almost always standing half a step behind Olesya with a hand on her lower back so that the attention is on her, not him. It’s not his night to garner easy publicity, after all.

They leave a few hours later. As soon as Olesya has dumped herself into the limo’s back seat, she wrestles off her high heels and flings them away. “Women’s shoes are awful. Why must beautiful things hurt so much?”

Alexei chuckles. When Olesya lifts one of her feet onto her knee and begins to massage the soles, Alexei pats his thigh until she props it on him instead. At the first dig of Alexei’s large thumbs into her insole, she melts into the seat and gives a moan that makes Alexei’s mouth a little dry.

“That’s wonderful,” Olesya says. She drops her head back and closes her eyes. “Don’t stop.”

Alexei gives her left foot and then her right foot a thorough massage. Even after he’s finished, he keeps her feet on his lap, stroking her ankles and a few inches up her calf.

Olesya finally lifts her head. Without warning, she pulls her foot from his grip and pushes her lovely toes into his crotch. Alexei’s been a little stiff since her first moan and the few she’s given during his massage have kept him up. He’s surprised by this particular move but he’s not averse; he spreads his legs so she can grind her sole into the seam of his pants.

“Wanna come up to my room?” she asks. “I wouldn’t mind having you for another hour.”

Alexei’s bisexuality runs more heavily in the direction of men than women. That said, he wouldn’t mind getting his hands and mouth on her breasts.

“I’d love to.”

Olesya gives him a few more torturous strokes with her foot but thankfully doesn’t try to get him off in the backseat of a rented limo. They’ve both had a few glasses of champagne but neither of them is drunk nor dumb enough to try having sex in the backseat of a hired car, especially with the partition half down.

Up in Olesya’s suite, they get in the bedroom and get down to business. Alexei strips Olesya out of her dress and lays her out on her unmade bed, kissing his way down her body. He finds out quickly that she likes her nipples bitten, likes a tongue tickling her navel, likes to feel Alexei’s teeth on her thighs. She doesn’t object to a dental dam, thank god, both because Alexei abhors unsafe sex, and because he _really_ wants to eat her out.

Olesya squirms and moans and tugs on his hair, her thighs squeezing his head something fierce as he sucks and licks her until she comes with the most adorably soft little cry.

“Do you like blowjobs?” she asks immediately after.

Alexei fishes out another condom, and Olesya returns the favor from earlier.

After they’ve both come and cleaned up, they lay on Olesya’s enormous bed and talk. At first they talk about Russia. Olesya is from the Moscow area, Alexei from a bit further north. They compare international experiences, mostly in America, since Alexei’s only ever traveled abroad here. Olesya has been to England, France, Egypt, and Japan. She has a clear voice and is a good storyteller.

The conversation is so normal and mundane that it takes Alexei completely by surprise when she says, “Your profile on the website said you date men and woman. Is that true?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Have you had sex with men before?”

“Um.” Alexei opens his mouth and shuts it. “I feel like it’d be impolite of me to talk about my work while I’m in bed with you.”

Olesya shrugs. “I don’t care. Do you? I’m not asking names or details, obviously. Just...” She waggles her eyebrows.

Alexei huffs a laugh. “Alright. Yes.”

“Recently?”

The conversation is getting very personal, at least for one between two people who are essentially strangers. Olesya doesn’t look disgusted or like she’s digging for gossip, just curious. “Yes.”

“I see.” She licks her lips, plays with the bed sheets. “That’s one of the nice things about America, isn’t it? That people can be themselves and not be afraid.”

He nods, solemn. “It is. It’s not perfect, though. There’s still a lot of discrimination, even after the same-sex marriage law was passed. There’s still violence.”

Olesya meets his gaze again. “Not like Russia, though.”

Just the thought of trying to be openly bisexual in his hometown makes him feel a chill. “No. Definitely not.”

“Do you have anyone special?”

 _You’re not useless,_ Kent’s voice says in his mind, and then, _You know I’ll like you whether you’re awesome or you suck, right?_

“No. No one special.”

“If you did, though?” Olesya props her head up on an elbow and studies him.

He spends too long figuring out his answer, and Olesya speaks again.

“I guess it’d be difficult with your work, wouldn’t it? For you and for them.”

Alexei just nods.

Olesya looks back down at the bedsheets and fiddles with the edge of her pillowcase. “Can I trust you, Alexei?”

“In general? No. I’m quite naughty,” he says, just to make her giggle. “With your privacy? Yes.”

Olesya nods, still watching her manicured fingernails smooth over white cotton. “My life is very public. Keeping secrets, even the important ones, can be nearly impossible. Even if you trust everyone in your life, it only takes one slip, one wrong word said at the wrong time to the wrong person, to betray not only you, but everyone you love and hold dear.” She doesn’t lift her eyes, but her silence is very pointed.

“My mother doesn’t know,” Alexei says. “About my sexuality or my work. My father only knows that I like men, because I told him when I was sixteen. He made me promise never to tell my mother.”

Olesya hums. “I’ve only been attracted to one woman in my life. She was a barista at a coffee shop I liked, where I’d go for lunch and to run lines by myself. We became friends. I thought that was all she was, until I looked at her one day and wondered what it’d be like to kiss her. And then some days later, I did. She kissed me back.

“I never called her my girlfriend and she never asked to be. I was so worried about keeping her a secret, but I needn’t have. My family only saw her as my close friend. When we expect one thing, we often don’t see what’s really there.”

“I understand.”

Olesya licks her lips, and then bites the lower one. “We had a family gathering. I invited her. I was careful all day, never standing too close or acting too intimate. But then, in a quiet moment alone in the kitchen, she kissed me. I exploded at her. I wasn’t loud, but I asked her, ‘What do you think you’re doing, bringing this behavior into my house? Don’t you know what it could do to my career if people saw you?’

She apologized. I thought everything was fine. At the end of the evening, she went home, and told me she’d see me soon.” Olesya sighs. “She disappeared from my life. From the city, maybe. I never saw her at the coffee shop again. They said that she’d quit. But do you know what the worst thing is?”

She looks at Alexei and he shakes his head.

"After I got over the shock, I was relieved that she left. My whole life is in the spotlight. If someone found out about her, it would ruin my career, and god knows what would be done to us, especially under the new laws. Even though it hurts, even though I wish she knew how sorry I am, I feel that it was the right thing, her going away. We’re both safer like this.”

Alexei recalls the tired despair on Kent’s face outside the motel in Providence. _What do you want me to do?_

To Olesya, he nods and says, “Yes. Sometimes the hard choice is the right one.”

Half an hour later, she pays him and he goes. On the train back to Philly, he sits in a corner seat and stares out the window.

_What do you want me to do?_

He doesn’t check his phone until he’s back in his apartment and sitting on his couch with a much-needed glass of whiskey. There are two voicemail messages, both from the agency.

It’s late, but he needs to call them anyway to check in now that his date is finished, so he skips the messages and just dials.

Amber is on duty, and she takes his call. “Alexei, hey. Did you get my messages?”

“I’m see but I’m not listen yet. I just get back from date. I’m finished about one hour ago, twelve-fifteen.”

“Ah, okay. I’ll log your time.” He hears her typing the information in. “So you haven’t heard either of my messages?”

“No.”

“In that case, I want you to know that you are under no obligation to accept this assignment. Okay?” She lowers her voice. “I haven’t even brought it up with Phil, because I know he’ll try to light a fire under my ass about getting you to accept. But this is _highly unusual_ , and honestly we’ve never had anything remotely like this before, so I don’t even know how we’d enter it into the logs. I know you know the whole ‘our business success is your business success’ yadda yadda, but Alexei, you can turn this down and I’ll just call the client back and tell him ‘no.’ Okay?”

Alexei takes a gulp of whiskey and sets the glass aside. “Amber. Too many words. Just tell me, what is job?”

Amber takes a breath. “It’s a twenty-five thousand dollar contract. For three _days_.”

Alexei stares at his balcony window. “…Twenty-five hundred?”

“Twenty-five _thousand_. For three days. In Las Vegas, Nevada.”

Alexei simultaneously wants to laugh until he vomits and throw the glass of whiskey at the wall. “Client is Kent Parson.”

“He sounded a little drunk when he called.”

That kind of information is not normally supplied for a client booking, but it’s also the kind of thing that Alexei thinks is warranted information about someone who calls to book an escort for _three days in Las Vegas and pay twenty-five thousand dollars for that privilege_.

Amber adds, “Alexei, honey, you know I’m the biggest stickler for our client confidentiality clause and also your personal privacy, but what did you _do_ to him in New York? Fuck his actual brains out?”

If Amber can hear Alexei grinding his teeth over the phone, she doesn’t comment. Alexei takes a few breaths and says, “May I call you back? I need… time for thinking.”

“Sure. Take all the time you need. My shift is up in an hour, though, so maybe call back before two.”

“I will. Thank you, Amber.”

“…Honey, not to overstep, but you sound mad. Did he do something? Because I mean it, you don’t have to accept this. Fuck the money. It’s a fucking lot of money, but if he did something, fuck him and his money.”

“No,” Alexei replies. “No, he’s not do something.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I call back before two.”

“Okay. Take care.”

“You, too. Thank you, Amber.”

They disconnect. Alexei sits on the couch in silence and takes a long, deep, angry breath. When that does jack shit, he takes another long, deep, angry breath. He follows it up with a gulp of whiskey that burns on the way down.

He can feel a muscle twitching in his jaw.

After five minutes of trying to calm himself down and only getting a fraction of the way there, he gets off his couch and goes to fetch his wallet. Stuffed in one of its deepest pockets is Kent’s business card, which Alexei has neither looked at nor acknowledged since Kent handed it to him in Providence.

It’s one o’clock in the morning on a Sunday. Alexei doesn’t fucking care where Kent is or what he’s doing. He punches the phone number in and tries not to pace too much while he waits for it to ring.

Kent picks up after five rings. He sounds groggy and muddled. “H’lo?”

“Kent,” Alexei says. “What. The. Hell?”


	11. Swing a Little Further

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the finish line.  
> As always, this chapter would not be nearly as polished nor coherent without the dependable and indispensable [luckie_dee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckie_dee/profile).

Through the phone, bedsheets whisper as they’re shuffled aside. “Alexei?”

“Agency just tell me I get twenty-five _thousand_ dollar job from you,” Alexei says. He’s mad and he sounds it. “Why?”

Kent shuffles around some more. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Alexei snaps.

A massive yawn comes through the line. “Shit, I went to bed like an hour ago. No wonder I feel like crap, you caught me in a REM cycle.”

“ _Kent._ Fucking tell me _why_.”

Alexei thinks it’s the swearing that gets Kent’s attention. Kent sighs. “If you don’t want the job, don’t take it.”

“Is not about take it or not take it. I’m ask you _why_. Why, after Providence? Why are you do this to me?”

“I’m not _doing_ anything to you.” He groans, and then his voice comes through muffled, as though he’s put his face in his hands. “Although this did feel smarter five hours ago…”

“Is stupid decision for you to make while drunk,” Alexei says. “You make us both regret this.”

“Drunk—?” Kent chuckles dryly. “Dude, I might have been a little muddled, but if I mixed alcohol with the meds, my doctor would kill me.”

Alexei frowns. “Meds?” But Kent had drunk at the reunion, at the bar, in Providence. He can’t be taking anything regularly. Can he? “What meds?”

“Basic painkillers, for the stitches and the headache.”

“Stitches and headache?” Alexei echoes. He feels a chill. “This happen in Dallas?”

Kent is quiet. “Guess you’ve been busy.”

If by “busy,” Kent means that Alexei has been avoiding any app or website that has anything to do with Kent, the Aces, or hockey in general for the last forty-eight hours, then yes. Alexei has been very busy. But stitches and a headache?

“Are you okay?” Alexei asks.

Kent’s reply comes through strong and sure. “I am _fine_. I’ve got all my limbs, I’m not concussed, and the hospital sent me right home afterwards. The coaches put me in a no-contact jersey at practice today, but honestly, it was more of a paranoid measure to make sure nobody busts my stitches. Of which I have a grand total of six. No big deal.”

Six stitches is absolutely a big deal. “Were you hurt during game against Dallas? Someone check you, you get in fight?”

Kent chuckles. “I mean, I got in a fight, but that was just Seguin’s way of rolling out the welcome mat. No, the stitches are because a fan threw a beer bottle at me at the end of second period.”

“ _Motherfucking son of a bitch_ ,” Alexei says in Russian, because sometimes English isn’t enough. He switches back to English for Kent’s benefit. “Did police catch _mudak_ who did this?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Kent groans. “No, not good. It’s legal shit I don’t want to deal with.”

“Man should pay for hurt you.”

“It’s just some stitches. If I’m careful, it won’t even scar.”

“Man should pay for hurt you,” Alexei repeats. Violence is expected at a hockey game, but only on the ice. Fans and players remain separate. For someone to attack Kent, unwarranted and with a weapon—and a glass bottle fucking counts—is unforgivable. “Are police come to Monday game? Make sure nobody throw something else?”

“Oh, God, I hope not. The last thing I need is to be treated like a special case, with security following me everywhere.”

“More security is smart,” Alexei argues. “If there’s threat, they need keep you safe.”

“There’s no threat, there’s just a homophobe with a beer bottle and good aim, and he’s in custody.”

“That is small consolation,” Alexei replies dryly.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t call me to argue about my self-preservation instincts, did you?” There’s just the smallest bit of bite to Kent’s voice. It’s not quite return fire, but neither is it neutral repartee. “To be honest, this is more conversation than I expected from you.” And _that_ was a jab.

“Don’t turn this back onto me,” Alexei growls. “I tell you in Providence I can’t be your friend. So you are thinking, what, you hire me instead? Try prove me wrong, you okay with my job?”

“That’s not—” Kent begins, and then audibly swallows his own words before they can escape. He takes a slow, heavy breath, like he’s calming himself. His silence stretches. And then:

“Does it hurt less, to stay away from hockey?”

The question shocks Alexei so much he can’t speak.

“Because I think it would kill me,” Kent continues. “Whenever I pull a muscle or bash a joint, whenever somebody knocks me down and it hurts to get up, not to mention that time I got a concussion so bad I was out for a month… every time something like that happens, I think, ‘God, what if this is it?’ and it scares the shit out of me. I don’t know what I’d do outside hockey, Alexei. I’ve got no fucking idea. This is who I am. This is _all_ I am. I don’t know what I’d do if I was ever carried off the ice and could never go back.”

Alexei swallows.

“I get why you stay away. But I think it’s killing you,” Kent says, voice gone rough and nervous and quiet. “I think it hurts to come back, to be near the ice, to—to be around me. But I think it’s _killing_ you to stay away, and I can’t just drop that. I’m sorry. I know you told me to fuck off, I heard that loud and clear, but I can’t—You’re not useless. You deserve better than this. You deserve to _give_ yourself better than this. And I just need you to know that.”

Alexei puts the phone down and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. He holds them there while he fights down the lump in his throat and the rising tears. Goddamn Kent Parson. He hates this man, so fucking much. All he wanted to do tonight was come home and sleep. Providence was supposed to be the end of this, the end of salting old wounds, the end of wanting something impossible. The end of being scraped so raw.

He could just hang up now. He wants to.

He keeps his hands to his eyes, swallows, and breathes.

When he finally brings the phone back to his ear, Kent is still speaking. “—something already, because to be completely honest with you I’m nervous about this whole conversation and if you don’t stop me right now I’m gonna just keep fucking talking—”

“I’m back,” Alexei says. He gets up from the couch, starts pacing the room. To keep his voice calm, he needs to use up the excess energy that could make it crack or shake. “Sorry, I’m put phone down.”

“…Please tell me you heard what I said and I don’t have to repeat myself. It’s not gonna sound as good the second time around.”

“I heard.” It takes another deep, measured breath to steady him. “You really make twenty-five thousand dollar booking just so I’m call you and you can say that?”

“Well I didn’t have your damn phone number, did I?” Kent’s voice is shaky but there’s a smile in it, buried somewhere. “I had to get your attention somehow.”

“Hm. You are not easy man to ignore.”

Kent’s voice softens. “Sorry. I know I can be a little much.”

Alexei agrees wholeheartedly. Kent can be _too_ much at times, overwhelming Alexei’s life and sense of equilibrium, filling the cracks of the pieces of himself that he’d long since resigned to being permanently shattered. “Is who you are,” he replies. “You are you.”

“I can’t tell if that is a compliment or a critique.”

“For you, is maybe both.”

Kent’s chuckle is watery. “Ouch. No wonder you got along with my team.”

“They are good men.”

“They really fucking are. You, uh…you’d probably see them again, if you came to Vegas.”

Alexei stills. “You really want me come see you? For three days?”

“I wouldn’t hate it.”

Alexei thinks about that. Just…for a second, he imagines what would happen if he said yes. He thinks about packing a bag, going to the airport, getting on a plane. He thinks about Kent picking him up at baggage claim, driving them to Kent’s apartment. A place where Alexei would live in close quarters with Kent for three straight days, right on the cusp of regular season.

Alexei has never seen Kent’s apartment. Where would he sleep? Does Kent have a guest room? Alexei would be using Kent’s shower, eating in his kitchen—hell, drinking his coffee. Maybe watching the morning news on Kent’s TV. Does Kent have a TV? And then after Alexei has showered and had coffee and eaten and is ready for the day…then what? Kent will have practice, PR activities, and then games against Anaheim and Detroit on Monday and Tuesday, respectively. Alexei would be an idiot to think Kent won’t want him to come. That’s Kent’s whole purpose here, isn’t it? To try and bring Alexei back to the ice.

He can already imagine the smell of the rink inside Vegas’s T-Mobile Arena.

What scares Alexei just as much is all that empty time in between hockey games, press obligations, and travel. He fears the first hour of the morning, the last hours of the day. Conversation with Kent is so easy, even when Alexei is resisting, even when he doesn’t want it to be. Kent is self-deprecating and compassionate and always pushes just enough to move Alexei closer to things he’s been avoiding for a decade of his life. Kent just has to smile and it makes Alexei stupid.

“No sex.” Alexei breaks the silence that Kent has allowed to stretch. “If I come to Vegas. No sex, no kissing. Nothing physical.” God help him, he has to draw his lines in the sand now.

“Absolutely. Totally agreed.”

“Also, you are pay too much money. For three days, you should pay me... ten thousand eight hundred.”

“Ten thou—That puts your hourly rate at a hundred fifty, that’s a fifty percent discount!”

“No, it’s keep my rate at three hundred, but only twelve hours each day.”

“Oh. …You know I won’t, like, expect you at my beck and call twenty-four-seven even if I’m paying you for it, right? I’m not gonna try to bend you to my will via capitalism. Also, I can afford it.”

“I know. But employee get breaks, yes? Man paying him doesn’t own him.”

“No. Of course not.” There’s a note of guilt in Kent’s voice that makes Alexei thinks he’s not getting what Alexei is trying to say.

“You don’t own me, Kent Parson. I am employee, I make my own choice. Maybe you pay me to come to Vegas, maybe it’s good money, but is my choice. You understand?”

A hitch comes through in Kent’s breathing. “I understand.”

“Good.” Alexei’s heart is pounding, but his voice stays calm. “So, you call agency back, tell them new terms, new payment.”

“Plus airfare. I’ll book it.”

“Fine. But if you are put me into first class, I’m turn around and leave without get on plane, and all you pick up from airport is my bag.”

Kent snorts. “It’s a long five hours to sit in economy, are you sure?”

Alexei has continued pacing his apartment throughout this conversation. He’s somewhere in his front hallway, staring at his umbrella stand and the shoes he didn’t put away when he came home. It feels claustrophobic, suddenly, so he heads back into the living room and goes onto the balcony, where the night air is whistling by. Alexei’s apartment is on the third floor, just high enough that it gets windier up here than it does on the ground once the sun has set. Lights from other buildings spread for miles. He doesn’t usually come out here, because his neighbor’s balcony is less than ten feet away and it’s hard to feel alone in a place where he could be disturbed at any moment.

At one-thirty in the morning, though, everything is quieter. He leans on the railing, his phone still against his ear. Kent is breathing on the other end, waiting.

Alexei admits, “I am not sure about any of this.”

“Buddy, you and me both. My entire life story is a series of crapshoots and impulsive decisions. I’m flying by the seat of my pants just as much as you are.”

“That very not reassuring. Do me favor and never try being motivational speaker.”

“You sound like Swoops on game days after my locker room pep talks.”

Speaking of games… “For Monday and Tuesday. You want me attend game?”

“I feel like that’s your call. But, yeah. I want you there.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Alright.”

“If you change your mind, it’s cool.”

“You get me tickets, I come.”

“Then, done.”

Alexei gets the distinct feeling that he’s just agreed to throw himself off the edge of a cliff. “You should call agency. Amber says she is wait for my call, so if you try now, you still catch her.”

“Okay. Hey, is it possible to tip the dispatchers? Because Amber kind of rules and I want to send her flowers or something.”

 _Amber thinks you’ve lost your mind and I’m the reason why_ , Alexei doesn’t say. “Maybe you ask Amber.”

Kent laughs. “Yeah, okay. I’ll give her a call. Oh, and one last thing. Can I save your number to my phone?”

Alexei completely forgot about that little side effect of him calling Kent in the first place. “Yes. Is okay.”

“Thanks. Guess I’ll go call the agency, then.”

“Yes, okay.”

Kent doesn’t hang up.

“Kent, what?”

There’s a half-breath, a pause, and then Kent says, “Nothing. Night, ‘Lexi.”

“Goodnight, Kent.”

Alexei ends the call. Stares at the blank screen of his phone, and then the hazy skyline.

Three days in Vegas. Two hockey games. One Kent Parson.

What the hell has he just agreed to?

\--

Less than twelve hours later, Alexei is clipping his seatbelt in place while the flight attendant demonstrates the proper way to use his cushion as a floatation device. His carryon is stored under the seat in front of him and his phone is off. There’s about two feet of foot room in front of him, which is more than the rest of the people in economy have. He’s debating whether to give Kent an earful for upgrading him to Premium Economy on the sly, because while it defies the spirit of what they agreed to over the phone, he can’t say it isn’t damn nice to get to stretch his legs.

The flight attendant finishes her spiel and the cabin crew prepares for takeoff. Alexei browses a magazine until they’re up in the air, and yawns several times to pop his ears. He knows the drill by now. He’s been on a few international trips in his life, those being his initial flight to America and the rare occasions he was able to save enough for a visit home. Air travel doesn’t bother him, thank goodness. He puts the magazine away and gets out a book to read to pass the time.

Last night, Amber had called back within twenty minutes of Kent hanging up.

“You called him, didn’t you?” she’d asked without preamble.

“He give you new contract terms?”

“I cannot _believe_ you actually talked him down on the price, are you insane?”

“Just confirm booking, Amber.”

As Alexei’s plane taxies onto the runway at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas, he puts his book away and reminds himself to breathe. Just because he knows why he’s doing this doesn’t make it any easier. More than that, the prospect of seeing Kent in person again after everything he said in Providence has his stomach tied up in knots. It’s not that Alexei has anything to apologize for; he’d meant what he’d said, and considering the circumstances, he’d had every right to say it. For both their sakes, he’d done what was necessary.

But now he’s pulling his carryon bag out from under his seat, getting off the plane, and taking an escalator down to baggage claim to pick up the suitcase he’d packed with the full intention of staying with Kent Parson for three straight days. All this, after he looked Kent in the face and told him that, in no uncertain terms, they were done. He’d said goodbye. He’d _meant_ it as ‘goodbye.’

He could blame Kent for this. He could say that Kent’s call to the agency had been a snare that he couldn’t escape and was therefore the reason Alexei was here in Vegas at all. Except that he and Kent both know that’s not true. Alexei is, if nothing else, a man of agency. He makes his own choices of his own free will, and no amount of handsome smiles or heartfelt sympathy over the phone at one o’clock in the goddamn morning changes that.

Kent didn’t put Alexei on a bus to Providence, and he only paid for Alexei’s ticket to Vegas. Alexei used his own two feet to walk himself onto the plane.

Just like he’s now walking away from baggage claim and heading to the central exit, a messenger bag over one shoulder and a suitcase trailing behind him.

He scans the masses of people milling about, trying to pick out Kent’s blond hair, flannel, and sunglasses from the crowd. Nobody stands out.

“ _Hey, ugly fucker!_ ” someone yells in Russian, with the worst accent Alexei has heard in his life. It’s Kent, standing off to the side, and he…he’s… Well, there aren’t words.

Alexei walks up to him. “First,” he says, “your accent suck. Second, what the fuck you are wearing?”

Kent looks down at his bright blue and green Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. He’s also wearing a baseball cap with the visor over his eyes instead of twisted ‘round to the back, which is almost as off-putting as the rest of the outfit put together. The cap and stray curls of blond hair cover Kent’s forehead and temples, obscuring all but the barest edges of his stitches. Alexei tries not to be too obvious as he eyes them, but doubts Kent misses the scrutiny.  Rather than mention it, though, Kent says, “I’m incognito, duh. I’ll have you know this is vintage Las Vegas tourist attire, here.”

It’s tacky and awful, and when combined with Kent’s unkempt blond hair, chiseled body and boyishly self-satisfied smile, it’s so fucking adorable that Alexei has to grip his suitcase tightly so he’ll keep his hands to himself. “I am embarrassed be seen with you.”

Kent laughs and steals Alexei’s suitcase before he can protest. “Come on, I’m parked outside.”

Going outside is like being slapped in the face by an oven. Dry heat swallows him in one gulp, sucking out what moisture it can from his pores. It’s October, yet it feels like early July. Sunlight sears down from the crystal blue sky and it burns away everything in its path. Even after Alexei puts his sunglasses on, he can see the shimmer of heat billowing off the cars in the parking lot.

“It’s hot,” he comments.

“Yeah. We’ll get the air conditioning turned on in the car.”

They walk down the sidewalk and then in between the rows of cars. Kent is parked in the short-term area, between a minivan and a blue Volkswagen Beetle. When Alexei sees what Kent is driving, something shorts out in his brain.

“You like?” Kent asks, when he looks up from putting Alexei’s suitcase in the trunk and catches him staring.

“It’s very nice,” Alexei allows, because an honest answer would come out vulgar. The car is sleek and rides low to the ground, its color an understated slate gray but its shape full of rounded edges that hide sensual shadows. It looks like how it feels to get fucked on cool silk sheets.

Kent gets into the driver’s seat and Alexei loads himself into the passenger side. The seats are plush and warm from the day’s heat. It’s even hotter in here than it was outside. Kent turns on the engine and starts blasting the A/C.

As they leave the parking lot, Kent says, “It occurred to me yesterday that Vegas is ridiculously inconvenient if you don’t have a car. Possible solution: we get a rental. Your thoughts?”

“Maybe.” He has his license with him. “I think about it.”

Kent hums. “Well, my place is pretty close to a grocery store, maybe about a twenty minute walk. There’s a strip mall with some bars and restaurants and stuff nearby, too.”

“I am only be here three days, you know.”

“I know. I’m just saying, in case you want to do something with all that free time you haggled for, there’s options.”

“Probably I sleep,” Alexei says. “Or read. Is very boring, my time off.”

Kent licks his lips. “Speaking of reading. You, uh, left your book in my hotel room. The one from Bittle’s?”

He remembers. He’d always intended to go back for it, before fear had sent him running home to Philly. “Oh. Sorry I’m forget it.”

“Yeah. Chesney passed it off to me in Dallas, said I should give it back to you. Guess I can, now.”

Just like on the phone last night, there’s a ring of pointed accusation in Kent’s voice. Unlike last night, Alexei ignores it, because he’s trapped in the car and doesn’t want to get into it right now. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Sure.” There’s a beat of silence, and then Kent lets out the most uncomfortable laugh Alexei has ever heard from a person. “Christ, isn’t this awkward.”

“Is not me who call agency,” Alexei grumbles, wedging his elbow on the door handle and looking out the window at the cement-and-sand landscape racing by. “Is not me who set this up.”

“Look, if you don’t want to be here, just tell me. I’ll turn right around, drive back to the airport.”

Alexei shakes his head, still watching the desert. “No. No, it’s…” Fuck, he doesn’t want to say this out loud. “I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

Alexei bites his tongue, and then grudgingly admits, “Providence is first time I’m go to ice rink in ten years.”

Kent’s breath leaves him in an awed whoosh. “Holy shit.”

“Mm.”

“What was it like? Going back?”

Outside the windows, cacti and sand have disappeared and morphed into glass and concrete. Apartment buildings tower left and right, interspersed with local and chain businesses. If not for the palm trees and distinctly dry, weathered appearance of some of the older buildings, it would be impossible to know that this was the middle of the desert.

“It’s hurt,” Alexei whispers, and doesn’t speak for the rest of the trip.

\--

Kent’s apartment is on the tenth floor of a building that’s so full of windows it looks like a diamond. It stands out like a beacon, reflecting sunlight and the Vegas skyline on all sides. There’s an underground parking lot for residents. Kent’s spot is right by the elevator. Kent gets Alexei’s luggage out of the trunk, and then pulls out a duffel bag that smells like body spray and socks.

“We had practice this morning,” Kent says as he offers Alexei his suitcase and shuts the trunk. “I got a regular jersey this time. Finch kept hitting me when we played three-on-three. I miss the days when he was an awe-struck rookie and wouldn’t use violence to show he loves me. Pavlo’s still got that wide-eyed look, but I figure I’ve only got half the season before he stops respecting me, too.”

Alexei nods, noncommittal. His silence makes the elevator ride up to Kent’s floor awkward.

When Kent opens his front door, the first thing Alexei sees and hears is Kit, meowing raucously as she trots down the hall.

“I missed you too, baby!” Kent exclaims. He scoops up his cat before she can get underfoot and beckons Alexei inside. Alexei comes, shutting the door behind him. Meanwhile, Kent goes into the kitchen, still talking to Kit.

“Well lookie there, is your water dish empty? It sure is. Who’s my thirsty girl? Let’s get you a refill, huh?”

There’s a soft thump as Kent deposits his cat on the floor, then a hiss of water from the sink. Alexei toes off his shoes—which Kent still has yet to do, he’s gone and worn his sneakers right into the kitchen—and walks down the front hall, leaving his suitcase behind.

Kent’s place isn’t brand new, but it’s new enough that the design is very modern. All its architectural colors are subdued, from white to cream to black to steel blue-gray, with dark wood paneling on some of the doorways to add character. Almost totally opposite from the sleek, uniform apartment is Kent’s decorating. It isn’t _messy_ , but it’s obvious just from the diversity of styles in all his furniture and appliances that everything has been selected for function, not form. Kent seems to like dark colors with occasional explosions of color, as evidenced by his living room being white leather, black chrome, mahogany finish, and eclectically colored throw pillows. There’s a tall bookcase full of novels, sports magazines, and awards that Kent has won over the years.

Alexei lets himself be drawn over. Along with the awards are several pucks, carefully labeled. _First NHL Game. First Hat Trick. ’12 Stanley._ _First Broken Tooth_.

Alexei can’t help himself: he snorts softly in amusement.

“What—oh, yeah.” Kent joins him. “Sunny got that for me as a joke.”

“Good joke,” Alexei murmurs, glancing over. “Which tooth?”

Kent opens his mouth and taps a bottom incisor. “It was just a chip, but it hurt like a bitch. This one’s a crown, too,” he adds, pointing, but Alexei isn’t paying attention to his teeth anymore. Kent has taken off the hat and ruffled his hair back into place, leaving the puckered seams of his stitches bare. There’s a line of them up his temple and a few more at a slant above his left eyebrow. They look _awful_ , like reddened gums full of blackened teeth. The skin around them is still bright purple with fading bruises and dotted with pink scratches.

Alexei’s hand is halfway reaching to Kent’s face before he catches himself and forces it down.

“They look worse than they feel,” Kent says. His smile is bright and meant to reassure. “They don’t even hurt anymore, just itch.”

“Is very close to your eye.” If the cut on Kent’s forehead had been half an inch lower, it would have gone through his eyebrow and possibly into the eye socket itself.

Kent’s smile twitches. “Yeah. But it missed.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me, too.” Kent clears his throat. “You hungry? I’m starved. I came straight from the rink to the airport, only had a protein bar on the way.”

Alexei’s stomach is too twisted up with nerves to make him hungry, but he nods anyway. “Sure.”

“Great. You want to get settled in while I make us a late lunch?”

Alexei agrees, so Kent shows him to the spare room and then leaves him alone. The room is surprisingly homely, if somewhat…merchandised. The bed has a duvet with the Aces logo on it, the pillows are black and white, and there’s a framed poster of last year’s team on the wall, the Stanley Cup at the center of the group. As captain, Kent is standing right next to it, with one hand on its rim. His smile is breathless and his hair is a mess, the photo clearly having been taken the same day as their win. Many of the people in this picture had won a Stanley before. Yet they all look as euphoric as if it was the first of their lives.

Alexei touches the picture of the cup. He still dreams of it, sometimes. His sleeping mind doesn’t know to stop dreaming of something once it’s become impossible.

He tears himself away from the poster and goes about putting his things away. If he’s going to be here for three days, he may as well organize his clothes in the drawers and half-empty closet so they don’t get wrinkled. There’s a small bathroom connected to the guest room, obviously separate from the master bath that Alexei would assume is attached to Kent’s room. His bathroom doesn’t have a tub, but the shower looks luxurious, and he knows he’ll appreciate having his own space to get ready in the morning.

By the time he has finished settling himself in, the scents of oil and garlic have begun to waft down the hall. Alexei follows the smells—and the soft growl of his stomach—back to the kitchen, where Kent is hard at work. The tourist clothes are gone, exchanged for his customary jeans-and-t-shirt ensemble. There’s evidence of flour, eggs, tomato sauce, and spices all over the counter tops. The sink is full of dishes. Although the apartment has air conditioning, the atmosphere in the kitchen resembles the outdoors.

Alexei folds his arms and leans against the entryway. “What you make?”

Kent holds up a finger, and then grabs a pair of mitts and heads for the oven. Amid a gust of hot air that Alexei can feel from several feet away, Kent withdraws a broad, circular pan with a round slab of golden-brown dough.

“Welcome to Kent Parson’s Build Your Own Pizza Adventure,” Kent declares.

Alexei suddenly understands why the kitchen is covered in jars and bowls full of pizza toppings. “Half mine, half yours?”

“Oh _hell_ no, Mashkov, you get your hands off my carbs. This one is mine.”

“So what I’m eat?”

Kent’s reply is to open the oven again. “One kiddy-sized pizza, coming up.”

“ _Kiddy-sized_?” Alexei repeats. But the pan that Kent pulls out is the same size as his. “You not funny.”

“I’m fucking hysterical. Kit thinks so. Right, babe?” Kent puts the pan onto a clean spot on the countertop and looks down at his cat. She’d backed off when Kent had opened the oven but she returns to wind around his ankles, meowing when he makes eye contact. Kent nods. “See, my cat agrees with me.”

Alexei just grunts, shaking his head, and asks, “Where’s plate?”

As it turns out, Kent can be ridiculous and dramatic, but he knows how to distract. Spreading sauce, cheese, and a variety of vegetables and meats onto the dough takes Alexei’s focus out of his head. Once they’ve added toppings and melted the cheese down to maximum gooiness in the oven, Kent steers them to the sofa and turns on the flat screen TV.

“Cooking channel good for you?”

“Sure.”

It keeps them busy for the next hour. Afterwards, they clean up the kitchen, and only share words when necessary. Alexei feels unsettled in his own silence. So often, when he’s out with other people, it’s been his obligation to keep people talking. He is always asking questions, prompting other people to share their stories, adding amusing anecdotes of his own. Kent has to be feeling as awkward as Alexei is, but this is one of the few times in Alexei’s life when he just…doesn’t know what to say. Moreover, he’s afraid of where a conversation might go if he starts one.

There’s so much yet unsaid that he’s not sure he’s ready to put voice to, nor hear.

He’s wiping the last of the flour off the countertops when Kent gets a text.

“It’s Swoops. He says some of the guys are going out for karaoke and then dinner. You wanna go?”

Alexei rinses the towel off in the sink and hangs it up to dry. “You don’t think teammates ask why I’m come with you?”

“Yeah, but I think they’ll save it for practice tomorrow, when they can get me alone. It’ll be fine.”

“Is team dinner, yes? Maybe is not right, you invite me.”

“It’s not just the team. I think there are some other people coming. Finch always brings his girlfriend, they’re basically attached at the hip. Plus, this barbecue place where they’re going? Thirty-five bucks for all-you-can-eat. Sunny goes through the whole platter menu, it’s great.”

Alexei shakes his head. “No, is okay. You go. Is your team.”

“Really?” Kent makes a face. “You just got here. I’d feel bad leaving you alone. I really don’t mind telling Swoops ‘no,’ I see him and the rest of these guys every day.”

“Kent. Just go.”

There’s a beat of silence, and the soft line of Kent’s mouth creases. “You’re sure.”

Alexei nods. There’s something brewing in Kent’s eyes, behind the understanding and empathy. It isn’t dangerous, but neither is it gentle.

Kent sighs, crosses his arms, and looks askance. “Look, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m awful at helping people work through their shit. I’m the guy who calls other people for advice, not the guy who gives it. But, in my honest opinion, I think you’ve got a bad habit of avoiding stuff you don’t want to deal with.”

Alexei clenches his jaw and feels a muscle twitch. “You come up with diagnosis all by yourself? You expert on my life, now?”

“After the number of times you’ve brushed me off or shut me out, yeah, I think I’ve got some insight.” Kent’s gaze flickers back up to Alexei. “But I can’t read your mind. I can’t guess what you’re thinking or feeling, you have to talk to me.”

“I don’t _have to_ do shit.”

“This is my fucking apartment!” It isn’t a yell, but the tension in Kent’s voice makes it clear he’s on the verge. “I invited you!”

“You hire me. You pay me.”

“You accepted! What happened to all that ‘it’s my choice’ bullshit you fed me over the phone? What are you—” He sucks in an angry breath and draws his arms tighter together. “What are you even doing here if you’re just gonna hide? What am I even doing here if you’re just gonna get rid of me the first chance you get?”

The hurt in Kent’s eyes makes it too difficult to look at him anymore. Alexei speaks to the cabinets. “I am _try_. Is difficult.”

“Well it’s no picnic on this end, either,” Kent snaps, and the words would sound harsh if not for the way they shiver at the end.

There’s no sound in the kitchen except their breathing.

“You know what, you’re right,” Kent says. “I’m just gonna go.” He digs through his pocket until he pulls out a mess of keys, and twists one of them off. “Here’s the spare. Call me if there’s an emergency, and don’t feed my cat anything that isn’t labeled for her.”

Alexei takes the key. “Have fun.”

Kent’s reply is a derisive snort and an eyeroll. “Yeah, sure. Enjoy your alone time.” A minute later, Kent has pulled on the baseball cap, grabbed a jacket from his hall closet, and is gone.

The silence seems to echo in his absence.

Something soft and warm bumps into Alexei’s leg and makes him yelp. Kit yowls in reply and rubs against his shins again.

“Oh, is you.” He squats and starts to pet her. There’s a tightness in his throat that’s trying to make its way to his eyes. He swallows it down and continues to stroke Kit, light and uncertain. He doesn’t have much experience with pets. His family never had any because Yelizaveta is allergic, and none of the places he’s lived in America have allowed pets.

Dissatisfied with his timidity, Kit rubs her head insistently against his fingers. He experimentally scratches around her ears. Kit’s eyes go half-lidded.

“You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?” he murmurs to her in Russian. “Sorry I yelled at your Papa. He makes me…emotional.” It’s the fucking understatement of the century. When Kent comes back, Alexei will apologize. He squirms at the thought of it, but it’s the right thing to do.

For now, his knee is strongly protesting his current position. With some help from the kitchen counter, he stands up straight, and then reaches down to grip his ankle and pull it up towards his spine. It’s a stretch he should have done this morning. But he’d been busy, to say the least, and now the combination of last night’s date with Olesya and the cross-country travel he engaged in today has made his muscles tight. He’s much more flexible on his other leg when he switches. The bad knee still aches, too, so Alexei resigns himself to a full round of physical therapy stretches and goes to the guest room to change into sweatpants and get his exercise band out of his bag.

Kent’s living room is big. Even with the sofa, chairs, bookcase, and entertainment center, Alexei only has to shift a coffee table a few feet to make room for himself in the widest space. It lets him lie down and go through the full range of motions that are second nature by now.

 _“Knees are tricky_ ,” his physical therapist had told him. _“It’s not just the joint itself you have to worry about. There’s a whole host of muscles attached to it, pulling it in different ways. You have to take care of your whole body, keep all those muscles flexible and strong, so they can do their job and support the joint like they’re supposed to.”_

With Kit padding around and sniffing him curiously, Alexei takes care of his hamstrings, his quads, his deltoids, his glutes, and his calves. He uses the back of the sofa to stabilize himself while he puts one leg behind the other and leans until he can feel his iliotibial band, all the way down his side and into his knee. It aches, but not as badly as it did when he was squatting on the kitchen floor.

He flops onto the sofa after he finishes. His entire lower half feels warm and tingly. Kit hops up beside him and head-butts his elbow until he starts petting her again.

“You’re very persistent for a creature so small,” he tells her. “Did you get that from him, or did he get it from you?”

Kit, of course, doesn’t answer.

Kent gets home many hours later. Alexei is stretched out on the sofa, reading. He almost misses hearing the door open and close, and then Kent shucking off his shoes. The sun has long since set over Nevada in a fiery display of orange and gold ferocity, leaving only a black void filled with faded stars and the light pollution of a thousand neon signs. Kent’s apartment is completely dark except for the corner lamp that Alexei had turned on to read by.

“Kit? Hey, kitty-Kit!” The whisper precedes Kent’s entrance into the living room. He freezes when he sees Alexei on the couch, but then his expression melts and he bites his lip. “You made a friend.”

Alexei raises his book to look down the length of his body. Kit has wedged herself into the space between Alexei’s thigh and the back of the couch, and is purring like a motor as Alexei absently combs his fingers through her fur. “She is good kitty.”

“Didn’t we have this conversation already?” Kent asks, still keeping his voice down. “I told you she was adorable.” He comes around the sofa and sits on the opposite armrest, close to Alexei’s feet. The sofa is long but Alexei is almost too tall for it.

“You tell me, but, maybe I understand obsession, now.”

Kent’s smile is short-lived, disappearing just as fast as it crosses his lips. He looks down at his hands and fiddles with his keys. “About what I said. I’m sor—”

“Wait.” Alexei licks his lips. He starts to speak, then stops. What he finally says is, “You have _vodka_?”

“Um. Yes.”

“You mind I have some?”

“You can have anything in my kitchen, man.”

Alexei puts the book aside and gets up, murmuring Russian apologies to Kit as he goes.

Kent stays on the arm of the sofa. “Did you have dinner?” he calls.

“Yes. I’m eat your takeout leftovers, is okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

Alexei locates Kent’s alcohol stash and pours himself a few fingers of vodka. When he comes back out to the living room, Kent has slid off the sofa’s arm and is poking Kit’s paws to make her twitch.

“How long you have her?” Alexei asks as he takes a seat on Kit’s opposite side. The cat is like a buffer between them.

“Three years. I pretty much started Instagramming her the day she came home.”

“Not from kitten, then.”

“No. She was about two years already when I got her. Adult cats have a harder time getting adopted than kittens,” he adds. “Nobody wants ‘em once they’re full-grown and ornery.”

Alexei doesn’t know ‘ornery.’ He gets the idea, though. “You do good thing, adopt Kit.”

Kent just nods, watching Kit and rubbing a finger under her chin. His silence is one that Alexei has never heard before. It’s empty, but not patiently so; there’s too much exhaustion, too much defeat. Kent isn’t waiting for Alexei to speak. He’s just given up offering words of his own.

Alexei sips the vodka, and gets a fucking grip on himself. “I don’t want you say sorry, because you’re right. What you say about me. About how I’m avoid.”

More silence. Fucking hell. Alexei keeps talking. “I’m not bullshit you, about this is my choice. I want…be here. I want something change.”

For ten years, he has tried to live the narrative of a distant outsider. He has followed hockey online but never attended a game; cared for his knee but ignored the frustrations of it, pushed away any thoughts of why the pain is there; made friends from all over the world who were lovely in conversation but couldn’t have told him the difference between a Pens jersey and a Bruins one.

He is notorious at the agency for being the only escort on file who’ll refuse any dates involving ice skates, which is a _bitch_ of an inconvenience for everyone during the winter season. Especially in New York. Every tourist coming in for Christmas or the New Year wants to take a spin at Rockefeller Center. No one at the agency knows Alexei’s history with hockey, but they _all_ know he’s a fan, so they can’t understand why he’s so adamant. Phil argues with him about it every year.

It’s become difficult to tell which pain is greater: the very thought of putting on skates again, or the effort it takes to avoid every situation that involves getting near an ice rink.

He takes another gulp of vodka. Getting this out feels like pulling teeth. “What you’re say on the phone…that it’s killing me, to stay away. Maybe you’re right. But is hard, being here. Is just make me want to run.”

Slowly, Kent nods. His fingers are still ruffling Kit’s fur. “Can I do anything to help?”

 _Stay with me._  Alexei holds out his empty glass. “Get me new vodka? Please.”

Kent gives him a look that’s not _quite_ a glare, but he takes the glass and goes into the kitchen. When he returns, he has two glasses, one for Alexei and one for himself.

“What about meds?” Alexei asks as he takes his drink.

“They’re just painkillers. I’ll skip ‘em tonight.” Alexei expects him to reclaim his seat on the sofa, but Kent goes to the sliding glass doors that open onto the balcony. “Come on. You haven’t seen Vegas ‘til you’ve seen it at night.”

Nighttime in Vegas is _cold_. Goosebumps break out all over Alexei’s arms and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Worse is the wind that blows through at this altitude, whipping by like it has a thunderstorm on its heels. There’s no humidity, though, just the same dry air with a mild aftertaste of the day’s heat.

“Need a jacket?” Kent asks. He closes the door behind them so Kit can’t come out, and then goes to the railing to lean on it.

“Okay for now.” The metal railing is even chillier than the air, but Alexei folds one arm over it and holds his drink close to his chest. Kent’s apartment view is spectacular: nothing but glittering lights for miles, so bright it looks aflame. “Wow.”

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Kent sips his vodka. “You should see it at New Years. All the fireworks and light displays make it feel like they’re trying to burn the place down.”

“New York is same. Everyone is have parties and being so loud. Is fun, but not good if you want sleep.”

“Amen.”

Alexei expects the conversation to die there, but Kent says, “I understand what you mean, about wanting to run. When something hurts that bad, it feels smarter to just get out of the way, because if you stick around to face it, it’ll crush you.”

“Yes.”

“Or, in my case, you cling to your own version of events for so long that you totally miss the fact that everyone else has moved the fuck on, and you’re just crying into your pillow every night over past shit you can’t fix instead of trying to build something new in the present.”

Kent follows this up by taking a long drink from his glass and tapping his fingers on the railing. When he finally deigns to meet Alexei’s gaze, Alexei deliberately raises an eyebrow.

Kent shakes his head. “It’s a long story, and fifty percent of it isn’t mine. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“So, old boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend.” Kent snorts. “If that isn’t the most complicated word in the English language.”

“Before or after you come out?”

Kent blows out a breath. “Before. Long before. Definitely not since I came out. Dating me is career suicide now, haven’t you heard?”

“Men exist outside hockey.”

“None that’ll date me, though. My schedule is ridiculous, my career is hazardous, and there’s the personality defect where I physically cannot shut up about hockey. Or my team.”

Alexei hums. “Or cat.”

“Or my cat,” Kent agrees.

“Or food.”

“Or food.”

“Or—”

“ _You_ can shut up, now,” Kent drawls, and Alexei laughs into his drink.

They stay there, watching the Vegas skyline and sipping vodka, until Kent complains that he’s “freezing his fucking balls off,” and goes inside. Alexei only stays out a few minutes longer. Inside, he sees light coming from Kent’s room down the hall, hears water running in the bathroom. He puts his empty glass in the kitchen sink and goes to the guest room, closing the door so he can change for bed.

Just as he finishes brushing his teeth, a knock comes at the door.

“Hey, sorry,” Kent says when Alexei answers. “I just wanted to mention, I’ve got optional skate tomorrow, from nine to eleven. I don’t have to be back for the game until four, so I was thinking, maybe we could do lunch or something in between?”

“Yes. That sounds good.”

“Good. It’s, um, almost a thirty minute drive from here to the rink, so maybe you could ride with me in the morning? You don’t have to come in if you don’t want, there’s plenty of shopping and tourist spots in the area, you can just hang out ‘til I’m done. If that’s fine?”

“It’s fine.”

“Awesome.” Kent lights up with more enthusiasm than Alexei thinks is necessary. It’s reminiscent of when Kent had decided to take them to Waterfire, and it makes Alexei suspicious.

“You are planning something,” Alexei guesses.

“Maybe.” Kent offers a guilty half-smile. “Trust me?”

 _Yes,_ Alexei thinks. _But sometimes you lead me places I’m afraid to go._ “If I must,” he replies, trying to make it long-suffering but finding that Kent’s smile is contagious.

“I’m the captain, everyone trusts me.”

“You not my captain. I’m Falcs fan.”

“Oh, I’ll bring you over to the dark side, don’t worry.” Kent’s eyes sparkle with the same bold confidence he brings to the ice. It puts a slouch in his posture, adds a cocky angle to his grin.

Alexei…wants to take Kent’s face in both hands and kiss him against the doorframe until his legs buckle.

“Good luck with that,” Alexei says instead. “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Alexei.”

“Goodnight, Kent.”

Kent leaves. Alexei closes the door, thumps his forehead against it twice, and then just leans there with his eyes closed.

Fuck.


	12. Unsteady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and thanks to [luckie_dee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckie_dee/pseuds/luckie_dee).  
> You'll probably have noticed that this fic is now 14 chapters long. That's because all of you were right, I could not fit everything I have left in this story into one chapter.  
> For those wondering, I know where I'm going with the story. There's a very clear and definitive image in my mind of how things will work out, so I know that we're nearing the end. The only thing that's vague is how big a wordcount it's going to take to get us there, which is why my chapter count keeps changing.  
> Thanks for your patience!  
> (And expect chapter 13 soon, b/c chapter 12 turned out to be nearly 15k and I had to split it.)

Rain or shine, strange bed or no, Alexei always wakes up at seven-thirty to work out before he starts the day.

However, he always wakes up at seven-thirty on the East coast. So the first time he emerges from sleep, he checks his phone and finds it’s four-twenty-two.

“ _Fuck time zones_ ,” he grumbles, and rolls over.

When he wakes again, it’s just shy of six-forty-five and he can’t make himself sleep any more. Close enough. He stretches, yawns, and gets out of bed.

There isn’t any workout equipment in Kent’s apartment and Alexei never asked about an on-site gym, so he stretches and does a few floor exercises at the foot of the bed. He adds ten extra reps to everything. It makes sense to push harder, since he’s missing out on his usual cardio.

He also needs a way to work through the restless energy skittering under his skin. He can’t get rid of the memory of last night. Those few moments of Kent at his door, relaxed and smirking, had followed Alexei into bed and still haunt him in dawn’s light. He’d been so wrapped up in the emotional aspects of being here that he’d almost forgotten Kent’s sheer physicality. Now it’s all coming back to him: Kent’s thighs in the khakis, his hands on the pizza, his shoulders shifting under the t-shirt like a python coiling through loose skin.

It merges with other memories: Kent’s body curled into Alexei as they danced at the reunion; his jaw scratchy with day-old stubble when Alexei brushed his fingers along it at the Hell’s Kitchen bar; the knobby line of Kent’s throat under Alexei’s mouth at the motel, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Alexei’s tongue with every deep, desperate moan.

Alexei finishes his workout and goes to take a shower. It runs a little longer than usual.

He still manages to emerge from his room, dressed and ready for breakfast, before Kent has made any noise in his. It’s not until Alexei has made coffee and is starting to worriedly check the time that Kent’s alarm goes off down the hall.

“Was going to come get you,” Alexei tells him when he stumbles into the kitchen. Kent is wearing only his boxers and his hair looks like it lost a fight with a dryer full of socks. “Is eight-fifteen, isn’t your practice at nine?”

Kent ignores him in favor of pouncing on the Keurig machine. He has a reusable plastic Starbucks cup instead of a mug to catch the brew, and he fills it the rest of the way with milk and enough sugar to make Alexei wince.

“If you tell my nutritionist, I’ll kill you,” Kent says, right before taking an enormous gulp.

“I think your nutritionist notice when Anaheim check you and you bounce.”

Kent chokes on his coffee. “Fucking Christ, how are you awake _and_ that savage first thing in the morning?”

“I like morning.”

“Mornings are the worst invention in the history of mankind.” Kent chugs more coffee and goes to refill it. While the Keurig works, he leaves the kitchen and disappears back into his bedroom. Then he yells, “Can you feed Kit?”

Kit has been sitting by her food dish and glaring at Alexei since he made coffee. He’d noticed the cans of cat food in the pantry, but hadn’t known which nor how many to give her. She’s already a little tubby and he doesn’t want to make it worse.

“How much I give her?”

“Any of the Fancy Feast cans is fine!”

Alexei follows these instructions, to Kit’s delight. He also rinses and fills her water dish.

Kent returns, now wearing a t-shirt, hoodie, and sweatpants. His hockey duffel is slung over his shoulder, but he dumps it by the door and comes back to the kitchen. “Fuck, I’m so late,” he mutters as he pulls a pre-made protein smoothie out of the fridge. The bottle is plastic, reusable. “You want one? It’s mostly powder but I throw in some veg and peanut butter and shit to make it fun. I don’t know what your daily calorie intake is, if you’re on any kind of diet…?”

“Twenty-seven hundred is usual, but I’m not do so much cardio this week, so maybe twenty-three hundred today.”

Kent grins and holds out a second smoothie bottle. “That’s about five hundred calories and thirty grams of protein to get you started. Give or take a wad of spinach.”

“It have banana?”

“What kind of basic bitch do you take me for?” Kent snorts. “Of course it has banana.” He shuts the fridge, puts a lid on his coffee, and heads for the entryway.

Alexei goes with him. “You very weird in the morning.”

“I’m weird literally every minute of my life, don’t sell me fucking short.”

Despite his morning incoherence, Kent drives with confidence and care. Alexei observes Las Vegas out the window. The Arena is closer to the famous Strip than McCarran, so there's more to see.

"There's shopping malls and restaurants around the Arena," Kent says. His voice carries over the low music from the radio, something generic with pop undertones. "Practice ends at eleven, but I probably won't be out until almost noon. PR wants to do some pre-game bits and that's usually another hour."

"Is fine. I find something to do."

Kent clears his throat. "You, uh. Need any spending money?"

Alexei chuckles. "No. Have credit card, is fine."

"Okay." A pause. "Because I mean, technically you're here on my dime, you might as well—"

"Are you client, or sugar daddy?" Alexei teases, and it has the desired result of making Kent sputter.

"Oh my god, never say those words to me again."

"Yes, daddy."

" _Jesus Christ, shut up._ "

Alexei is still giggling to himself by the time they arrive. Kent steers into a private parking lot, meant for staff and athletes only. The time is eight fifty-two.

"Congratulations," Alexei says as they get out of the car and Kent locks up. "You not late."

"I'm the king of being barely on time. Also, I don't see Finch's car, so either Jessi dropped him off, or he's late because he's getting laid and I get to berate him about it later."

"Jessi his wife?"

"His girlfriend. We're all kind of waiting for him to pop the question, although I wouldn't put it past Jess to stick a ring in his morning miso." The duffel bag is back over his shoulder. "You know, if you wanted to come in and hang out in the Arena, I can talk to Martin, our GM. I think he'd be fine with it."

Last night, Alexei hadn't given the karaoke outing much consideration before turning it down. This time, he takes a minute before firmly shaking his head. "No. I feel silly, be spectator for practice. I come to game later, yes?"

"Okay." Unlike last night, Kent smiles in response to the refusal. "I just want to make sure you know that you're welcome at any time."

"Thank you."

They go their separate ways: Kent into the stadium, and Alexei back out the way they came in, taking the stairs down two flights back to ground level. From there it’s a short walk to the hotels, restaurants, and casinos. He finds plenty to see, if not much that he’s willing to spend money on. Gambling never appealed to him, and the shops are mostly full of high-end glitz with labels like Versace and Prada. A mall the size of a small city yields a plethora of restaurants.

Alexei goes into the most reasonably-priced burger joint he can find and gets a seat at the bar. Kent had been right; the protein drink was a good start. But Alexei needs more if he’s going to be out and about today, even though he’s trying not to do too much walking. Just getting out of the Arena and over to the mall has put enough pressure on his knee to make him aware of it.

The bar isn’t deserted but it certainly isn’t bustling. Alexei spends a good hour there, people watching and working his way through a burger and a pile of fries. It’s very different from New York. There’s an air of intoxication in the visitors to Las Vegas, an expectation of thrills around every corner. Vices abound but somehow the rules feel far away and detached. All consequences are hypothetical. Everything that could hold a person back is secondary to the experience of the moment.

It’s both tantalizing and intimidating.

“Waiting for someone?” asks the bartender, after the waiter has cleared Alexei’s plate away.

“No. Just having lunch.”

He leaves shortly after. There’s still an hour left before Kent said he’d be finished with both optional skate and his PR duties, but Alexei hesitates at continuing his trek through the mall. He finds himself looking back the way he came, towards the Arena.

He wonders what it smells like.

_You’re welcome anytime._

He starts walking.

\--

As it turns out, the T-Mobile Arena security guards don’t let just anyone wander around the empty stadium.

The woman on duty who finds him in the hallway to the locker rooms is sympathetic but firm. “Sorry, but we can’t just let you in on your say-so that you’re a friend of the team. I can call the Aces office, though, and ask them to confirm.”

Alexei shakes his head. “No, is okay. If he’s busy I don’t want disturb him. Can go back to parking lot, wait there—”

“Whoa, Alexei?”

Both the guard and Alexei look down the hall, where Finch is approaching them with wet hair and a sports bag over one shoulder. He waves and jogs closer. “Yeah, I thought that was you. What the hell are you doing here?”

All that comes out of Alexei’s mouth is, “Uh.”

The guard asks, “I’ll leave him with you, then?”

“Yeah, thanks. Come on, Alexei.”

The guard leaves and Alexei accompanies Finch down the hall. The air has the distinct smell of soap and polish, no doubt from the surfaces having been scrubbed clean to make way for the teams that would pass through in the months to come. Finch looks perfectly at home as he strolls along, a bag that’s half his size and body weight held up like it’s nothing. He’s an inch shorter than Kent, barely enough to count, but stocky as hell. Like a bulldozer with legs. Alexei saw Finch get drafted to the Aces five years ago. The difference between that giddy kid receiving his jersey and the confident young man walking through the arena halls like he owns the place is even more shocking up close. Finch has a certain swagger, here, that he didn’t at the hotel in Providence.

Then again, all players strut in a stadium. Home ice is territory to defend, while everywhere else is topography waiting to be conquered.

The hallway branches off into the home and visitor’s lockers. “You coming to the game today?” Finch asks as they head towards the Aces’ locker rooms.

“Yes, and Wednesday game against Detroit.” God help him.

“How are your seats, any good?”

Alexei has no idea. He didn’t care enough to ask, he just trusted that Kent would procure them. “Good enough.”

“Yeah? Did Kent at least get you rinkside?”

“I don’t know seats,” Alexei admits. The casual mention of Kent—and the insinuation that he’s the reason Alexei is here—does not escape him. “He only say he’s get them, and I say okay.”

Finch laughs. “Oh, man, never say ‘okay’ to anything from Parse until you’ve got details.”

“He’s very sneaky,” Alexei agrees.

“Tell me about it, he was a fucking menace to my shoes my rookie year.” There’s only half a hallway left between them and the locker rooms. Finch licks his lips and asks, “You heard about the thing in Dallas, right?"

Alexei nods. "Someone throw beer bottle."

"They've got the asshole in custody."

"Kent says he doesn't want press charges."

"Yeah." Finch sighs. "He doesn't like other people defending him."

"He has a lot of pride."

Finch makes a face. "It makes our job harder. We're a team. We look out for each other."

"It's good he has you."

"He's damn lucky he has us, we fucking rock." Finch grins. "But there's always room for more people on Parson patrol, you know?"

Alexei thinks he does. "Yes.”

They arrive at the locker room and Kent is not there. Some of the other Aces are, though, mostly dressed and preparing to head out. Chesney freezes when he sees Finch walk in with Alexei. But then he heaves a quiet sigh and goes back to shoving his things in his bag.

“Parser still doing PR?” Finch asks.

Sunny stands up and pulls an enormous backpack over one shoulder. “Yep. Should be finished soon. Him and Pavlo.”

“Cool. Alexei, if you want to chill here until Parser gets out, it should be fine.”

Alexei nods. “Okay. Thank you.”

“His box is over there.” Finch points, and Alexei recognizes the duffle from that morning. It had looked big on Kent’s shoulder, but here, in context, it fits. The room itself is jarringly familiar in its geometry, all of it slightly different from Alexei’s locker rooms past, but exactly the same in its mix of pungent and chemical smells, the bright lights and broad cubbies. Even the perfect height of the seat when Alexei sits down reminds him of the motions that follow: skates on, lace up, head out.

He misses it. He misses it so much.

He has missed _out_ on so much, and he wonders what he’s even gained by avoiding it for so long. Has it made things better, fleeing this instead of trying to find a way to keep it however he could?

If losing his dream was the worst pain he’s ever known, how could anything that comes after compare? Should he have come back sooner? Should he have tried? Is it too late to achieve anything new?

He doesn’t know the answer. Who knows what comes next, if anything possibly can.

“Mr. Mashkov!” Pavlo spots him the second he walks in, his expression jubilant for a split second before melting into confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard there’s a hockey game tonight. I thought I’d come see it.”

“No, I mean what are you doing in Vegas—” He catches himself, eyes darting around to the senior players in the room quietly going about their business. Nobody understands the Russian, obviously, but nobody else is making a big deal about Alexei’s presence, either.  Pavlo abruptly switches tracks. “Well, it’s good to see you again!”

“It’s good to see you again, too. Are you ready for tonight?”

“Yes. I’m nervous as all hell, but in the best way. I can’t wait to get on the ice.”

“I know the feeling.” Alexei grins at him and earns a wider grin in return. “What’s your pre-game ritual look like?”

“Sleep and food, mostly.” Pavlo goes to his cubby a few feet away and flops down. He’s got his skates on still, so Alexei assumes he was either getting in some late practice or the PR bit had taken place out on the ice. Flecks of ice cling to the boot and the blade. Pavlo tugs open the laces, pulls off the skates, and gives them a perfunctory wipe before stowing them.

“That’s a good plan.”

“What about you? What was your pre-game ritual?”

It’s a bittersweet memory to have here, deep in the inner sanctum of a professional hockey team. “The same, sleep and food. I also wouldn’t talk to my family before a game, but I’d always call them after. Or text, if I couldn’t get them on Skype or on the phone.”

Pavlo nods. “My dad always calls me before a game. I told him he doesn’t have to, since the time difference is so bad, but he was like, ‘I want to be part of your NHL pre-game ritual.’” He laughs. “I told him, ‘Okay, but that means you can’t miss a single game or it’s bad luck.’ He hasn’t missed one yet.”

Alexei feels warm on Pavlo’s behalf. “Your dad sounds wonderful.”

“He’s kind of embarrassing,” Pavlo replies, although the grin that he’s wearing belies the statement. “When I got drafted, he wouldn’t stop telling people about it. He told the car repair guy and people at the grocery store.”

“How unbearable,” Alexei teases, his heart aching. “You should send him a signed jersey.”

“Oh god, he’d never take it off.”

From outside the locker room, there’s the sound of footsteps and echoing voices. Kent arrives in an Aces jersey and black sweatpants, skates on and hair in disarray. He’s only half watching where he’s going, wearing a serious expression as he nods curtly in response to his companion. The man with him is half a foot shorter, maybe a decade older, Indian, and dressed like he’s expecting a media scrum at any minute.

“…release it as soon as possible, get it out there on the feeds.”

“What about the press conference?”

“We’ll have it immediately after the game. I know it’s a lot to do in one day, but the sooner we address this, the better.”

Kent stops just inside the door, arms crossed and mouth turned down. His stitches still stand out across his skin, blushing and sweaty from practice. “That’s fine. I just want it over and done with.”

The other man makes a small noise of tired disagreement. His voice is gentle in a way that lets Alexei know this is an argument he’s made repeatedly. “It’s going to take more than this press conference to put this to rest, but it’s a start.”

“Forward’s better than nowhere,” Kent says, and looks around the locker room like it’ll give him an excuse to exit the conversation. He clearly doesn’t expect to find it in the form of Alexei. “Oh. Uh.”

Finch gives Kent a light punch on the arm as he squeezes by on his way out the door. “You left your guy wandering the halls like a stray. Rude.”

The unknown man—whom Alexei suspects is their head of PR—follows Kent’s gaze. Alexei wishes now that he wasn’t sitting in Kent’s cubby. He has no idea how much Kent has told his organization about his foray into hired companionship. It’s starting to look like waiting outside the arena would have been a much safer and less damning option.

“This is, uh, Alexei,” Kent says. “He’s a friend of mine. We were going to hang out today before the game.”

Alexei takes that as his cue to stand up and come introduce himself. “Sorry I’m just drop by. Kent says he’s done at noon, but I’m come early.” He offers his hand and the other man shakes it readily.

“It’s no problem. I’m Tom Kapoor, head of the Aces PR.”

“Good to meet you.”

“Likewise.” They part hands and Tom turns to Kent. “I’ll have Sachiko get started on the clips. We’ll talk more about the press conference later. For now, just rest up and get your head straight for the game.”

Kent nods. Tom leaves, and Kent releases a breath of obvious relief.

“Sorry I’m come in,” Alexei murmurs.

Kent’s smile is forced, but not insincere. “And miss out on smelling our locker room for yourself?”

“Is very bad,” Alexei says, leaning close conspiratorially. “Captain’s spot most bad.”

“That’s the smell of success.”

“Really? Because I'm think just your B.O.”

Kent’s smile grows and he starts to reply, only to be cut off by Chesney calling from across the room.

“Parse.” It’s sharp. So are his eyes as he looks at the both of him. “Can I talk to you? Outside.”

Kent’s mirth dies like a match doused in water. “Later, Ches.”

Chesney shakes his head, already hitching his bag over one shoulder and walking towards the exit. “Nope. Outside.”

Alexei takes a step back, nods to Kent. “I’ll wait.”

Kent looks like he wants anything but to be alone with his alternate, but he follows Chesney out of the locker room and into the maze of hallways. Their voices echo back as faint murmurs, too far away and too soft for anyone to make out distinct words.

Alexei stands by the wall and waits. The last of the Aces trickle out, Sunny and Pavlo among them. Pavlo gives him a sympathetic smile as he goes, one that Alexei returns with as much reassurance as he can.

It’s a long and tense several minutes before Kent comes back, alone. There’s guilt in his eyes and unhappiness in the crease of his mouth. It makes Alexei want to reach for him, touch him, rub the tightness from his shoulders and smooth the worry out of his face.

At the reunion and in New York, he’d done it instinctively, taking away Kent’s unease with a press of hands or lips. Technically he’s on the clock now. But it’s not the same. Contact means something, with Kent.

So Alexei just says, “Chesney not happy you’re bring me.”

“Chesney is trying to protect the team,” Kent replies. “And me. Just because I don’t like what he says doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

Delicately, Alexei offers, “Maybe I shouldn’t attend game tonight.”

Kent just looks at him. “Do you want to?”

Screaming fans. The slap of sticks and pucks. Kent Parson at the center of it all, a whirlwind force of nature on skates with a deadly shot and razor smile.

“Yes.”

Kent nods once. “Okay, then.”

“Okay.” Alexei checks the clock on the wall. “Still have four hours maybe until you need come back. You hungry? I’m already had lunch, but it’s okay if we go somewhere.”

“Actually…” Kent licks his lips. “I kinda had something else in mind.” He shakes some of the stress from himself and goes to his cubby. Alexei expects him to sit and remove his skates, but instead of that, Kent digs through his bag until he retrieves something. It’s bulky and stiff and he has to wiggle it out.

It’s another pair of hockey skates. They’re definitely not Kent’s size.

Kent comes over and holds them out. “Skate with me.”

Alexei stares at him, bewildered. “W-what?”

“Skate with me. Out on the rink.” Kent’s voice is steady but his mouth betrays his wariness. He understands what he’s asking.

“I—” Cold leather touches Alexei’s fingertips and he jolts, because he doesn’t remember reaching out. He means to pull back but he can’t. He feels the stiff laces, the worn heel, the ankle guards. His fingers close around the double-knotted laces at the top. Kent lets go, and suddenly Alexei is holding them.

“I got them out of the rental shop,” Kent says, almost whispering, as though speaking any louder will cause Alexei to startle. “I checked your shoe size last night, after you went to bed. Sorry. I just thought…maybe…”

Feeling numb, Alexei asks, “Which way is rink?”

Kent takes them down a hallway and out into the arena. It’s just like any other, big and broad and surrounded on all sides by stairs and seats. There’s no one around, no janitors or security, not even the ice crew. A bucket of pucks sits by the net nearest to them. The ice itself is scraped raw from the Aces’ practice.

Alexei sits on a bench and laces up, Kent standing silently by.

When they get to the rink itself, Alexei freezes up, one skate suspended over the ice.

“You okay?” Kent asks.

No. No, he’s not okay. His heart is beating so hard that his chest hurts and each breath feels like it’s going to choke him. The only reason he’s standing here is because he has blanked out everything else in his brain except for basic motor skills. He’s so tense he feels like he’s vibrating. His knuckles are going white where he’s gripping the barrier. He can’t—He can’t—

“I can’t.” He says it out loud. “I can’t.”

But he doesn’t move.

Kent waits.

Alexei puts one blade on the ice. Then the other. And then he pushes off, gliding, the sharp steel beneath him grinding across the torn up ice like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He doesn’t fall. He flies.

Sharp scraping sounds behind him announce Kent’s arrival, seconds before he comes into view. “You’re a natural,” Kent drawls, the barest hint of a smile etched on his face.

“I’m skate before.” Alexei knows he doesn’t sound quite right, a little too tense and maybe a bit scared.

“Is that so?” Kent asks, nonchalant, and skates backwards while pretending to ponder. “Where’d you skate? Quebec? Harvard? Samwell?”

“Russia. All best hockey players from Russia.”

“Yeah? I’m not.”

They’ve circled half the rink in no time flat. Alexei’s muscles feel stiff but it’s a good kind of stiffness, like they’re waking up from a one hundred years’ sleep and recalling how to walk again. The motions are rusty but not foreign, all of it still hardwired into his body, just slow from disuse. His knee feels it the most. But even that isn’t as bad as he’d feared. It only aches; it doesn’t give out.

Alexei puts a little more push into his strides and catches up to Kent, who’d been drifting ahead. “You think you’re best?”

“I know it."

“Ovechkin and Malkin from Russia.”

Kent rolls his eyes and makes a rude noise of dismissal. “Malkin’s tricky but he’s got nothing on me.”

Alexei gets even closer and nudges Kent like he’s considering shoving him into the boards.

Kent dances away with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna check me? You gotta fucking _catch_ me.” He turns and dashes off, snow flying in his wake.

Alexei pursues. It’s not easy. Kent is in the best shape of his life and Alexei is a decade removed from the ice. But his feet somehow move almost effortlessly, muscle memory kicking in even if the strain of it starts to wear on him. He can tell that Kent isn’t giving it his best effort, that he’s not sprinting as fast or turning as sharply as he can. The Kent that Alexei chases across the ice is not the hockey god who lead his team to three Stanley Cups and will undoubtedly dominate tonight’s game. This giggling asshole is the guy who got chirped by a tiny baker in Providence, who threatened Alexei with a cheese stick in a bar, who stumbled out of his bedroom this morning in disarray.

Yet he looks just as natural on the ice now as he will tonight. It’s a different kind of natural, a playful one rather than predatory. And it feels natural for Alexei to be out here with him. His body already aches from being put to use in a way it hasn’t done in ten years, but it feels _right_ , being here. He sprints, stops, turns—

Falls.

Hitting the ice on his back knocks the wind from him.

From a distance, Kent shouts, “Alexei! Shit, shit.”

Alexei coughs and gasps until there’s air back in his lungs.

“Shit shit shit.” Kent screeches to a stop beside him in a shower of snow. “Are you okay? Is it your knee, did something tear?”

It was definitely the knee. Still lying down, Alexei bends the leg a few times, finding a sting in the joint. It’s only that, though. He knows what a bad injury feels like and this isn’t close. It’s just his body, giving out the way it always does, the way it has been since he was nineteen. He looks up at Kent, pale-faced and fearful, and for some goddamn inexplicable reason, he starts laughing. Great, heaving guffaws of laughter that thump his shoulders and ribs against the ice, tears of mirth that prick his eyes. He is utterly helpless to stop it.

“Does this mean you’re okay?” Kent asks. He looks baffled, and it only makes Alexei laugh harder.

“My knee,” Alexei manages between giggles. “Just my knee, always my knee.”

“…Okay. Can you stand?” Kent comes closer and holds out his hand.

Alexei does a half-crunch and grabs his hand, but instead of leveraging himself up, he yanks Kent down.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Kent yelps as he falls. Alexei makes sure to put out an arm to save Kent’s head, in case he hadn’t caught himself in time. He does catch himself, though, and grumbles as he lowers himself the rest of the way onto the ice. “Asshole.”

Alexei just chuckles more, and grins merrily at Kent until the laughter becomes catching and Kent is huffing softly, too.

Kent shoves at Alexei’s arm for good measure. “Asshole,” he repeats, too affectionate.

Alexei resettles himself to look up at the ceiling and the jumbotron, high overhead. He inhales the cold air and ignores the wet chill creeping into his shirt and pants. He feels tired and overworked in ways he hasn’t since he was a teen. He feels great. He feels home, in every way he possibly can.

His laughter slowly dissipates. It leaves behind a weight on his chest.

All he can hear is the droning of the massive air conditioning units and Kent’s heavy breaths beside him.

“I don’t remember fall,” Alexei says. “Just remember I’m suddenly on ice, and can’t get up. It’s not even hurt that bad. Just, I can’t get up.” The weight feels heavier, like it’s crushing him, like it’s forcing out something lodged deep inside him. “It’s not feel real. Every day, new doctors and new tests, new treatment, new therapy, and I’m always think, ‘I do this, and I get better. I do this, and I play hockey again.’ So many weeks, I’m think this. Even when I can’t walk, even when on the bench, even when I do so much therapy and still is hurt, I think, ‘Just have to finish, and I can play.’ But I...”

Against the cold air, the heat of tears on his cheeks is like a burn. “But I finish, and I can’t play. I never play again.”

Brief silence, and then Kent’s hand brushes his hair.

Alexei sniffs, his throat tight and his eyes wet. He covers his face with one hand.

“Oh, Alexei.”

“Just want to play,” Alexei whispers through the lump in his throat, so tight he can barely speak. “More than anything, just want to play again. Is all I want.” Tears are running freely down his face, hot and endless. His chest jerks with uneven breaths.

“Alexei. Hey, come here. Shhh, come here.” Alexei can’t see it but he feels Kent turning sideways and pulling him close. Kent is still partially padded up, and Alexei feels it underneath his cheek when he buries his face in Kent’s shoulder. Kent keeps petting his hair.

“Just want to play.”

“I know. I know.”

Alexei clings to him, muffles his quiet sobs as best he can in Kent’s jersey. It smells like sweat and body spray and polyester. He cries like he’s nineteen again, sitting alone in the stands of an empty stadium while his dreams fall apart around him. He cries because it’s not fair, because he’ll always want something that’s right in front of him and just beyond his reach. He cries because he knows he needs to accept it, and it feels like giving up on everything worth living for.

Kent holds him tightly, murmuring gentle nonsense and stroking the curls at the back of Alexei’s neck.

They stay like that for a long time.

\--

Within the hour, they’re back at Kent’s place, working their way through a generous late lunch. Kent's stomach, of all things, had gotten them up off the ice. It had growled so loudly that Alexei could have sworn that it echoed all the way to the nosebleed seats in the balcony.

"Should feed you," he had mumbled into Kent's shoulder. Snot and swollen sinuses had made his voice hoarse. "Game today."

Kent had sighed, his fingers still toying idly with Alexei's hair. "Yeah."

Seated at Kent’s kitchen counter, working his way through re-heated chicken parmesan, Alexei is quiet. He feels split open and raw. But at the same time, there’s a sense of relief, like a river that's finally pushed its way through a dam.

“Thank you,” he says, breaking his one-sided silence that’s been stretching since they left the arena. “For today. Was good, be back on the ice.”

Kent looks like he’s hiding a mountain of guilt behind a casual expression as he says neutrally, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Kent sounds so awkward, just completely out of his depth. He clears his throat and asks, “Do you, uh. Still want to come to the game?”

“You get ticket?”

A nod.

“Then I go.”

And that’s that. They clean up the dishes and go their separate ways; Kent to the living room to focus on the upcoming game, and Alexei to his room for a fresh change of clothes and a nap. Jet lag never bothered him much but today has been exhausting. It’s not even over yet, either.

He wakes up twenty minutes later, still tired but not sagging with it. He ventures into the living room and finds Kent on the sofa, lying lengthwise with Kit between his knees. The TV is on—hockey, of course—but Kent is asleep, his phone on the coffee table and his mouth half-open while he faintly snores. Kit opens her eyes at Alexei’s approach. She flexes a paw on Kent’s calf, but Kent doesn’t stir.

Alexei has seen Kent in a lot of different states, including post-coital, but never so soft and vulnerable like this. Kent is always in motion. Now he’s boneless, a giant rag doll flopped out on white leather. He somehow manages to look more exhausted in sleep than he’s ever looked while awake.

Kent snores a little louder and Kit twitches an ear. Alexei stifles a snort of laughter and tiptoes over to steal Kent’s phone off the coffee table. After checking to make sure the sound is off, he snaps several pictures of Kent obliviously dead to the world. He makes sure to get a close-up of Kit.

None of it gets posted. He puts Kent’s phone back on the table and grabs a recliner for himself, turning to the TV. Might as well, since it’s on. Now that Alexei is paying attention, he realizes that it’s not a sports channel, but pre-recorded tape of Anaheim in a recent preseason game against Vancouver. The first period has just finished. He settles in to watch.

Second period is half over when Kent suddenly startles awake like he’s been electrocuted. The noise he makes scares the shit out of Alexei and sends Kit leaping off the sofa with a yowl.

“Th’ fuck time’zit?!” Kent grapples for his phone. “Oh, thank god.” He sinks back down into the sofa cushions. “I dreamed I missed the damn game.”

“I not let you do that. Kick you awake first.”

“Yeah, you would.” Kent stretches languidly, liquid muscle and skin. The leather sighs beneath him. The sight is arresting, particularly for Alexei, who isn’t expecting it to hit him as hard as it does. Kent yawns and idly scratches his balls before sitting upright. He’s blinking awake but still looks sleep-mussed. His clothes are loose and twisted around him like they’re only a suggestion.

A loud, demanding "Meow!" comes from the kitchen.

Kent rubs his eyes and says through his hands, "You wanna feed my cat for me?"

For no other reason than the fact that Kent is joking, Alexei replies, "Sure," and gets up.

When he comes back, Kent is watching the Anaheim game again, both feet on the floor and his elbows braced on his knees. He looks pensive. Alexei sits back down, and Kent doesn’t acknowledge him. That’s fine. Alexei watches the game, too.

“Kesler’s tightened up his shots,” Kent murmurs eventually, his voice oddly distant.

“Less hesitation,” Alexei agrees, although he can tell by the delayed nod that Kent is only half listening. “You always watch tape before game?”

“In the first weeks of the season, yeah.” Kent chews his lip, leans towards the TV. On screen, Vancouver draws a penalty and goes on the power play. “Fowler, his stick work is…” Kent trails off and doesn’t finish.

The power play ends with two shots but no goals, and Kent is still mum. He keeps glancing Alexei’s way and half opening his mouth like he thinks he ought to say something, but doesn’t quite want to hold a conversation.

After too many of these aborted glances, Alexei gets up from the chair. “Your building have gym?”

“Hm? Yeah, second floor.”

“Okay. I’m go work out.”

Now Kent tears himself away from the screen to blink at him. “I can turn on something else if it’s bothering you,” he says.

The consideration is heartwarming, but unnecessary. “I don’t mind. But I’m distract you, be here. Mess up your focus before game, is no good.”

Kent winces. “Sorry. I don’t mean to ignore you. I’m just not used to having someone here, especially before a game.”

“Is fine. I understand, you know?”

Kent’s smile is unsure, but he says, “Yeah. Guess you do.”

So Alexei changes into something comfortable and heads out, leaving Kent to watch tape and get his head where it needs to be.  And, if Alexei’s honest, he needs the time away, too.

It’s been awhile since he worked out with real machines. All his exercise in the last few years has used his own body weight or a limited range of dumbbells to keep him in shape. Combined with the swimming, it’s kept him delightfully buff while not overly muscular. He’s the kind of built that gets people excited. He’s not strong like he used to be. Not like Kent is, like Finch is, like even young Pavlo is.

Alexei looks healthy, but he doesn’t look explosive. He doesn’t look like he’s spent every waking hour pushing his body to the limit of what it can do and then demanding more. Right now, he lives in his body. As a hockey player, he’d owned it.

Being back on the ice had reminded him of what that felt like.

Lingering whispers of muscle soreness chase him through his workout. He can’t push his knee so he pushes his upper body instead. He does butterflies and bench presses and hammer curls and everything he can think of, makes use of every bit of equipment he can. He does pushups until his arms shake.

He ultimately finishes because he has to, not because he’s ready. Everything hurts and he knows he took it too far. There’s a dark river of sweat down the front of his shirt and a matching one down the back, to say nothing of the ugly state of his armpits. He slumps down onto a bench and gulps water from a bottle he nabbed from Kent’s fridge on his way out. The clock says he has been working out for an hour. It’s more than he’s done in years, and he should be proud of that, of how hard he can still go when he’s pushing thirty.

But it’s barely a fraction of what he could do at nineteen. Any veteran hockey player could wipe the floor with him. Post-physical therapy Alexei could have wiped the floor with him.

It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Logically, he knows this. But he’s glad the gym is empty, so nobody sees him crying quietly on the bench. These little indignities have been building up for a decade and he’s always tried to ignore them. Getting back onto the ice has thrust them all into sharp relief. He feels everything now, the myriad ways he’s no longer _enough_ , and can never be again. It hurts. Just because he got himself to stop crying on the ice doesn’t mean he has run out of tears.

He makes sure to clean up his face before doing his cooldown. By the time he’s back at Kent’s door, the only evidence to see is sweat.

Inside the apartment, the TV is off and Kent is making noise somewhere in his room. Alexei passes his own door in the hallway to investigate. He finds Kent freshly showered and in a suit. A rainbow of ties is haphazardly flung out over his bed.

“Who need so many ties?” Alexei asks.

Kent doesn’t glance over. “I do. Shut up and help me pick one.”

“Would think,” Alexei drawls as he comes in, “you already do ten years, have some practice.”

“If you’re not going to help—Wow.” Kent has turned around and caught a look at Alexei’s dank state. He stays caught, for a moment, eyes tripping over the wet outline of Alexei’s pecs, the dishevelment of his hair. Alexei has just enough time to feel the weight of that stare go to his belly before Kent turns away and ruins it with a chirp.

“Guess that explains the smell.”

Alexei has no reservations punching him in the shoulder. “Least I can pick out my own tie.”

Kent groans and rubs a hand over his face. His fingers brush the stitches, making him flinch. “I’m not picking out a tie for me, I’m picking out a tie for the NHL’s First Openly Gay Player.”

“Is different?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” Gesturing to the ties, Kent says, “If I pick a fuck-ugly tie, am I being too straight or are they gonna crucify me for bad fashion sense? If I go too nice, too colorful, am I pushing the gay angle too hard?”

“Or maybe nobody notice.”

Kent throws his hands in the air emphatically as if to say, _Exactly!_

“Kent, relax. Is first game of regular season, not you bring escort to team breakfast.”

“Okay, you _know_ that line is gonna run out of mileage at some point, right?”

“But not now. Right? It work?”

Kent sighs. “Like… fifty percent.” But his shoulders have stopped hunching around his ears and the twist of his mouth isn’t so tight, which is the best Alexei can hope for.

“Good.” He wants to touch, to soothe. Kent’s perfectly coiffed hair is begging for a kiss. Alexei pats him on the shoulder, and then dares to give the sturdy muscle a squeeze. “I’m shower, get dressed. Choose most ugly tie, yes? Make face look better.”

“Oh, fuck you. Go shower before your stench kills my cat.”

Alexei musses up Kent’s hair and beats a hasty retreat.

When he emerges from the guest room a short time later, clean and dressed,  Kent is already waiting in the entrance hall with a small bag over one shoulder and his phone in his hand.

“Your tie look like 1970s vomit on you.”

“Good, that’s exactly what I was going for.” Kent makes a face at his phone and shoves it in his pocket. “You got everything you need? The arena opens to the public at five, but the game doesn’t start ‘til seven. You’re going to have a lot of time to waste.”

“Wallet and phone is all I’m need.”

“And this.” Kent pulls an envelope out of a different pocket. “For both the Anaheim and St. Louis games.”

Inside it is a pair of tickets. The seats are rinkside, and if Alexei’s math is correct, somewhere just behind the Aces’ bench.

“Sorry they’re not for the box,” Kent starts, but Alexei shakes his head.

“Don’t want media ask questions,” he replies. “And Chesney already angry.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not gonna be that happy when he spots you right behind him, either.”

They drive to the rink in near silence. There’s an electric energy radiating from Kent, one that Alexei knows like his own breathing. It’s the thrill of starting the season, and of heading to a game on home ice. Kent looks relaxed but there’s a focus in his eyes, a sense of readiness in his body. Like he’s coiled and waiting to spring forward.

It makes Alexei want to put a hand on Kent’s knee and drag it all the way up his thigh. It makes him think about the last time he was sitting next to Kent in a wet dream of a sports car, running his fingers over warm leather and thinking about blowing Kent in the back seat.

 _Let you fuck my face and come on it, if you ask_.

Alexei pointedly looks out the window and keeps his hands to himself.

Just like that morning, Kent drives into the employees-only lot, parking amid a familiar plethora of understated but expensive compacts and SUVs. There’s no lingering in the car; Kent gets out immediately. Alexei does too.

“I’ve got a press conference after the game,” Kent says. “Standard PR, but it’s also to let the press get a chance to ask about this.” He swirls a finger towards the stitches and fading bruises. “All we’ve done so far is release a bland statement. They’re dying to get their mics in my face and ask some real questions.”

“You do mid-game and post-game, too?”

“Probably.”

Alexei nods. “You want me wait, or catch cab?”

“That’s up to you, man.”

Leaving Kent to deal with the media and drive home alone doesn’t sit right. “Can wait, is okay.”

“Cool.” A flicker of grateful relief is there and gone in Kent’s eyes. “Meet you back here after the game, say, ten-ish?”

“Text me if sooner.”

“I will.”

Alexei hesitates. Kent waits, solid and patient. Words of sentiment well up in Alexei’s mouth, but what he says is, “Go kick ass.”

Kent’s grin is a thing of lethal beauty.


	13. Speechless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning in this chapter for hockey-violence, and blood.  
> Love and thanks to [luckie_dee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckie_dee/pseuds/luckie_dee) for helping me wade through the complicated business of writing Feelings.

Two hours later, the puck drops and the crowd roars. Alexei isn’t sitting directly behind the Aces’ bench, but he’s near enough to it that he can clearly see the players and occasionally catch strands of conversation shouted between them. Mostly what he hears are the fans around him, a foreboding sea of black speckled with white and occasional slashes of Anaheim gold. Alexei is startled and pleased to see a few people wearing rainbows, albeit little more than accessories—socks, bracelets, hats. But the show of support is clear, and if there was any doubt, Alexei has seen two different groups with glittery posters reading _LGBT for KP!_

Kent had waved to one of the groups during warmups. The fans had gone ballistic.

It’s a different atmosphere than the one in Providence. This game isn’t for exhibition; it’s for points. This, here, is the very start of the grueling trek for the Stanley Cup. From here on out, everything counts. Every goal, every assist, every point streak, every goal drought. Every fight, every hit, every minuscule mistake.

Alexei feels breathless with the frenetic thrill of being so close to it. He wants to be _in_ it. Sunny takes a hit and gives one back. Finch backhands the puck across the neutral zone and Kent picks it up, falling into an odd-man rush on Anaheim’s net. Two passes later, someone takes a shot. It goes wide, and Anaheim’s defense snaps it up. Alexei tracks all the places he could be, all the plays he could make, spots in Anaheim’s offense where he could make a two-hundred-pound nuisance of himself and fuck up their shots.

He doesn’t mean to, but he gets _into_ it. Sitting with his nose to the boards is so different from being back in the outer bowl. It’s torture and heartbreak and exhilarating. Kent’s shift changes and he clamors onto the bench as Swoops and Pavlo head out. The Aces’ coach leans close to talk to Kent—points towards the ice, talking strategy—and Kent chews his mouth guard while nodding.

Two more shifts hit the ice before Kent’s line is back out. The Aces have taken two shots on Anaheim and their goalie has stopped three. First period is three-quarters gone and neither team has put points on the board, although hits and turnovers are coming nonstop.

The flat of someone’s blade shoots out between Kent’s skates and sends him crashing to the ground. It happens in an instant, and Kent is back on his feet just as fast, with barely a flash of a hard glare at the instigator. Neither ref calls it.

“Fucking hell, you blind?” Alexei shouts through the glass. His voice gets lost in the others around him. The game plays on. Alexei tracks the Anaheim player who tripped Kent. Their shifts intersect again but nothing comes of it. He can’t tell if Kent is tracking the man, too.

First period ends with no goals for the Aces or the Ducks. The second passes the same way.

Third period starts with a penalty before the first minute is up. An Anaheim defenseman gets rough with Kent while battling for a puck near the boards, shoving hard like he’s more intent on knocking Kent down than getting possession. Kent ultimately hits the ice. Swoops is there in seconds, cross-checking the guy, and despite all the groans in the stands, probably no one is surprised when Swoops gets sent to the box.

Some minutes later, Rose puts a wrister past Anaheim’s goalie. The bench goes wild, as do the fans in the stands. It’s deafening. Alexei is on his feet and hollering right there with them, feeling as wild with joy as the Aces look. This is their first game of the season, and they’re the first on the board.

Rose and his line are soon exchanged for Kent’s. Alexei grins when he sees Pavlo out, too, picking up on Kent’s right like it’s second nature to flank one of hockey’s greatest players. Kent gets an opening and Pavlo snaps the puck to him.

Alexei and everyone else in the stands groan with disappointment when Kent’s slapshot hits pipe and bounces back out of the crease. Anaheim gets possession and tries to bring it down the ice, only to have Sunny deliver a rough check that separates the player from the puck. Kent is on it instantly, dodging the leftover winger and passing to Pavlo, who never left Anaheim’s crease.

A split-second backhand sends the Aces fans into frenzy. The second point is theirs.

Pavlo pumps his fist in a celly and gets mobbed by his teammates, right there in front of the goal. Anaheim’s players take issue with that, clearly, but Pavlo moves away quickly enough and skates past the Aces’ bench to bump everyone’s fist. Alexei can see the goofy grin on the kid’s face as he careens by, and he can even hear a few of the Aces shouting “Attaboy, Pavlo!”

And then, a shout from a fan beside him: “Fight! It’s Parson!”

Noise erupts in the stadium on a crescendo as all attention shifts to Anaheim’s goal crease. The remaining Aces and Ducks—even the goalie—have shifted away, forming a loose circle around Kent and an Anaheim d-man. Both players have lost their gloves and there is nothing mild about Kent’s tight-lipped fury, nor the hits he’s taking. It’s not a scuffle, squabble, tussle, or dispute; it is a flat out fight. Kent has one fist twisted in his opponent’s jersey and the other aimed repeatedly at the man’s face. He hardly ducks the punches he gets in return. His own jersey has gotten bunched up around his shoulders and he tries to use the leverage to bodily shove the other guy to the ground.

Alexei’s heart stops when the Anaheim player’s fist comes away bloody. It’s the stitches, it has to be; one of the hits got lucky and busted them open. Whistles are blowing and the refs are trying to break them up, but Kent doesn’t stop, even as the ice beneath him gets spattered red.

It takes three refs and a chokehold on both players to separate them. Kent lets himself be dragged away. He says nothing as he goes, face bloody and bruising and still twisted up with anger.

Regardless of whether Kent gets slapped with a ten-minute misconduct or ejected altogether, the state of him guarantees he’s not playing the rest of this game.

Alexei is out of his seat and jogging towards the exit before he’s made up his mind to.

The halls of the arena are mostly empty, everyone having crammed inside to watch the final period. The only people Alexei sees are staff and security. Being out of the ringing intensity of the crowd gives him room to think. He gets as far as the Tim Hortons in the concessions concourse when logic kicks in.

Nobody in the Aces organization is going to let him back to see Kent. Who is Alexei in relation to Kent, to any of them? He’s no one. The only people who know Alexei as anything more than a handsome, absurdly tall Russian stranger are all dressed and on the ice, or with Kent right now. Moreover… moreover, if Alexei were to insist that he should be allowed to see Kent, then someone—Tom, the Aces GM, the team doctors, any press lurking for shots of Kent's injuries—would want to know _why_.

If Alexei goes to Kent now, he risks Kent by association. Because no matter what Kent’s reasons for bringing Alexei to Vegas, regardless of whether they are friends or something else, at the end of the day, Alexei is a registered escort. It’s the job listed on his visa, and it’s his photo on the New York Elite Escorts website. And Kent hired Alexei to be here.

He stops walking. The memory of Kent’s face covered in blood is burning at the front of his mind, but he stops walking.

There’s nothing he can do for Kent right now. All there is to do is wait. He _hates_ it.

He finds an empty bar in the arena and gets a beer. All over, there are TVs showing the game in progress. There’s an enormous screen on the back wall. It reminds him so much of the one in Providence that he laughs under his breath.

The game has since continued. Alexei sees that the player who fought with Kent has been put in the box for five minutes. It’s a small thing, but Alexei allows himself a smirk of satisfaction.

The feeling is short-lived. Watching the game on TV isn’t as wonderful as seeing it in person. He can’t focus on it either, not every time he sees Kent’s line take a shift without him. Pavlo is still there, albeit angrier. All the Aces have steel in their eyes and an violent edge in their playing. The final ten minutes of the period are so full of hits and penalties that Alexei would swear he was watching a Pens-Flyers game.

The Aces score once more. Anaheim scores twice. The game ends 3-2. It’s hard to see on a screen, but Alexei thinks that the coaches and the refs look relieved that it’s over.

People spill out of the arena like marbles from an upturned jar. Everyone is exclaiming over the game, mostly about Kent's fight. Some people look overjoyed by the violence, others frustrated or upset. Alexei hears several derogatory comments, hushed and gleeful, including a woman and her friends who joke about Kent "Pussy" Parson. Alexei clenches his fist and chugs what's left of his beer. Better he drinks than he starts a fight of his own. Arrest and deportation are strong deterrents.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. There’s a text from Kent. Or at least, from Kent’s number.

**yo, is this alexei? it’s swoops. we met in providence.**

**u still at the arena?**

Alexei hesitates, but only for a moment.

_Yes, it’s Alexei. I’m here._

**parser's at the hospital getting his face stitched up again. he left his phone. u need a ride back?**

Alexei has no idea what Kent has told his teammates about them. If anyone else even knows.

Swoops texts again.

**or are u going to the hospital?**

That, at least, Alexei knows how to answer.

_Maybe I shouldn’t. Press watching._

**fucking vultures** , is the reply, and then radio silence for several minutes.

Alexei uses the time to pay his tab and leave the seat to someone else. He migrates out of the throngs of people raiding the merch shops and streaming towards the exits, finding a corner where he won’t be pushed along. His NHL app is already full of notifications about the game. Half of them include pictures of Kent mid-brawl. All concern for Kent’s well being aside, Kent really does look splendid with his eyes full of fire and his fists swinging. Most photographers seem to favor the shots of Kent with blood running down his face. It makes him look savage and untethered. It’s a thousand miles from the man he was this afternoon, standing in his bedroom and biting his lip raw over which tie to wear.

A text comes through. Swoops again.

**employee door in section d, see u in five.**

_What about press?_

**just get ur ass here.**

Alexei is in section A. He circles the arena’s outer halls until he reaches section D, and locates a little employee door stuck into the limited space between a sandwich shop and a McDonalds. The door says _Employees Only_. Alexei pushes it open.

Swoops is waiting on the other side, leaning against the wall and texting on his phone. He’s barely out of his gear, sweat-slick and mussed and still wearing his Under Armor under a grungy t-shirt and jeans. He has his duffel bag with him.

“How you escape media scrum?” Alexei asks.

“I got out before the GM let them in.” He puts his phone in his pocket and waves for Alexei to come with him, picking the duffel off the ground as he goes.

“What about press conference? Kent is say he’s have one.”

“Chesney will take that.”

Alexei nods. They walk for a while, through endless identical corridors of concrete and nondescript doors, passing security guards and employees wearing aprons and polos emblazoned with logos of various concessions stands. Nobody gives them a second look.

Finally, they emerge in the parking lot. There’s some distance between them and the Aces’ parking area, so they start walking.

“Where we go?” Alexei asks.

Swoops doesn’t reply. There’s a set in his shoulders and a twitch in his jaw that Alexei is starting to think is not solely due to Kent being in the hospital again. Outside Jeff Troy’s hockey stats, Alexei knows precious little about him. He only knows that Swoops has been Kent’s teammate longer than most of the Aces, including Chesney, and that whenever Kent talks about the team, Swoops’ name comes up the most.

They arrive at a black SUV. If anyone other than Swoops, who is built like a fridge, were driving a car this big and bulky, Alexei would think they were compensating. For Swoops, the car is just stating fact.

“You don't need drive me around,” Alexei says as Swoops unlocks the doors and tosses his bag into the back seat. “I can catch cab, it's fine.”

Swoops shuts the door with unnecessary force and meets Alexei’s gaze over the hood of the car. “Look, I’m gonna be straight with you. I don’t know what you said or did to him in Providence. It doesn’t matter if I know. What I _do_ know is that he was over the moon at breakfast and fucking heartbroken on the plane to Dallas. He didn’t let it mess up his game, because he’s _Kent Parson_. He will never let it mess up his game, because he’s _Kent Parson_. But it messed _him_ up. Shit like this, he doesn’t fight it, he just lets it gnaw on him. He leaves it off the ice, but he takes it everywhere else."

Rather than be intimidated, Alexei is relieved that Swoops is being so up-front. "You want me leave him alone?"

"I want you to not fuck around with him. You charmed the pants off him for a month—” Alexei bristles. “—ditched him in Providence, and now all of a sudden you're shacking up with him in Vegas. Make up your damn mind, man. It's not just my best friend you're jerking around, it's the captain of the Las Vegas Aces. He’s the backbone of the team and the face of the franchise. If this thing with you interferes with our gameplay, he'll never forgive himself. And if you jeopardize his career, _I'll_ come after you."

A parking garage is no place to have this conversation, but it doesn’t look like Alexei has much choice. “I’m not _jerk him around_ ,” he says, still mildly fuming at the words ‘charmed the pants off him.’ He wants to snap that being charming is his fucking _job,_ which Kent _hired_ him for. “Is not what you think.”

Swoops snorts.

“Is complicated,” Alexei insists.

“Because he’s a Stanley Cup champion and you’re a wash-out?”

Alexei feels a muscle twitch in his jaw. He’s tired of having false accusations thrown at him. “Because I’m _escort,_ ” he throws out, a challenge.

“Yeah. I know.”

And doesn’t that just make Alexei feel like someone's tied his skates together. “He—really? Fuck, he’s tell everyone, now?” he groans. “What’s point of secret?”

“Parser’s career, for starters.”

“You think I’m not know that? You think I’m not care?”

“You came to Vegas, didn’t you?”

Alexei runs a hand through his hair and looks away, out across the lights and assorted swanky cars. “Is not my idea.”

“But you came,” Swoops insists. “Why?”

Alexei knows why, although he can’t think of any particular reason that Swoops has earned the right to hear. Best friend or not, this isn’t his business. It’s Alexei’s business, and Kent’s business, but not something that all interested parties are automatically privy to.

“Because he's make very good argument,” Alexei allows. When Swoops scoffs derisively, Alexei snaps, “What you want me say? You want me say I come because I’m fall madly in love? Even if is true, you not believe me anyway. You want me say he's special? He's Kent Parson, of course he's special. Best player his generation. I admire him, sure. And when I’m see he’s so nervous at reunion, I'm want help him, make him not be nervous, but he’s still client, is my job. This is… I don’t know. Him and me, I don’t know. I come to Vegas, little because I want, little because…because he's Kent Parson. Is hard say no to him.”

"But you get why that's not good enough, right?" Swoops asks, quieter. "A guy doesn't fly his escort to Vegas 'cause he gives good dick."

 _You'd be surprised_ , Alexei wants to say, but the flippancy won't be welcomed. "I know. And I'm tell you, I'm not fuck around with him. Is just complicated."

Swoops heaves a sigh. "Guess that's as good as I'm going to get." He pats the roof of his truck. "Come on, get in. I'll take you back to Parser's place."

The ride to Kent's is quiet and not a little uncomfortable. Swoops is still giving off heavy vibes of distrust and discontent. His phone buzzes several times in the cup holder, but he doesn't reach for it, nor ask Alexei to check it. Alexei's phone stays silent, since the only person who would contact him is in the hospital and doesn't have a phone.

Swoops sees Alexei all the way to Kent's door, apparently under the assumption that he'll need to let him in. He makes a sour face when Alexei pulls out a key. The frown deepens when Kit greets them and rubs against Alexei's shins like she's greeting Kent himself.

So it shocks Alexei when Swoops hands him Kent's phone.

"Tell him to text me when he gets back so I know he's not dead. Unless he's doped up on drugs, in which case I'll kill you if you don't make him go right to bed."

"You very terrifying friend," Alexei says with feeling.

"My best friend was assaulted by a homophobe, and now he's courting career suicide for a guy who can't make up his mind how he feels about him," Swoops replies, arms crossed and one shoulder leaned on the doorway. "I'm Freddie fucking Kruger."

Kit makes a break for the open door. Alexei snaps her up before she gets past the threshold. "At game today, Kent's fight. You know what d-man say to him? Make him angry?"

Swoops shakes his head. "No. Kent wouldn’t say."

Which means it must have been bad. Kent almost never fights, not like he did today. He plays tricks, he takes cheap shots, he gets rough and gives people shit, but he doesn't have a reputation for being a brawler, not like some guys in the league. On the night that Kent booked him, Alexei had watched a YouTube video of Kent's fight with Seguin in Dallas. The two had pushed and shoved and gotten physical but neither had thrown punches.

For Kent, the fight today had been uncharacteristically violent, and personal.

"If Kent doesn't want to talk about it," Swoops adds, "don't push him."

The insinuation that Alexei is some kind of asshole who can't read a delicate situation makes him grind his teeth, but he just says, "I not push."

"Great." Swoops shoves off the door frame. "I'm going home. Take care of my captain."

Once Swoops is down the hall and out of sight, Alexei shuts the door and petulantly locks it. Kit meows in his arms. She sounds plaintive.

"Are you hungry?" he asks her, and although it's in Russian, she meows again like she understood. "Let's go check your bowl, huh?"

Kit's food bowl is empty and her water bowl is low. Alexei puts her down so he can refill the latter, and then hesitates over refilling the former. "I don't know if you're supposed to be fed again," he says. She's sitting at his feet and staring up expectantly, but Alexei's heard enough about the cleverness of cats to know it could be a trick. "Kent's not here, though. I'll give you a little bit."

Kit looks less than pleased by the meager offerings of flaky chicken, barely half of the can’s full contents. Still, she starts eating. Alexei gets a glass of water and stands in the kitchen, watching her. "Your dad's at the hospital," he tells her. There's no one around to tell him he's being stupid, talking to a cat that's not even listening. Kent talks to Kit all the time. She's probably used to it. "He busted his stitches in a fight. I don’t know how long it’s going to take him to get fixed up this time.”

Kent gets home pretty late. Alexei is already in his room getting ready for bed when he hears the front door shudder. He goes to investigate, and the sound of Kent’s muttered cursing is coming through the door.

“Fuck, it’s in here somewhere—"

“Kent, let me.”

Alexei freezes, two feet from the door. He doesn’t recognize the other voice. It’s probably not someone who’s supposed to know that Kent has company. Kit walks right up to the door and meows loudly.

Alexei manages to duck back into the guest room and close the door most of the way before the front door opens. Two sets of footsteps enter. The heavy thud of a bag hitting the ground soon follows.

“Hey, kitty-Kit,” Kent says. He sounds un-medicated but tired. “Sorry I’m so late. No, don’t—yeah, thanks Martin.” There’s a pause. Alexei suspects Kit is being transferred from one person to the other. Kent continues, “I’ll get a cab to the rink tomorrow, pick up my car.”

“Sure. Do you need anything? I can stick around, help you get settled?”

“No, uh—I’m fine.”

“Okay. Call me or Tom if you need to come in later, get more rest. And take care of those.”

“I know the drill. Seriously, thank you.”

“Any time, Kent. You know that.”

A few good-byes later, the other man departs. Kent locks the door behind him and then goes quiet. Alexei can’t see him around the corner and he can barely hear him, just breathing, standing still by the front door. Kit makes a soft noise, and that’s all.

Alexei dares come out of the guest room and down the hall. Kent is by the door, Kit in his arms and his face in her fur.

“Kent,” he says softly, and is glad that Kent doesn’t startle at the sound of his voice.

Kent lifts his head and turns towards him, and Christ. Patches of purple and blue cover his face and there are bandages on his knuckles. Half his bottom lip is red and puffy, and the stitches up his forehead and temple are hidden beneath waterproof bandages.

“Oh good, you’re home,” Kent says.

“Got ride with Swoops,” Alexei replies.

“I know. He texted Martin about it. Something super vague about how he was taking my chicken home to the roost. Martin’s used to our bullshit so he just let it go.”

“Swoops ask you text him when you’re home,” Alexei adds, because if he forgets to pass this message along, he’s likely to be in hotter water with Swoops than he already is. He pulls Kent’s phone from his pocket and hands it over. “If you not ‘doped up.’”

Kent rolls his eyes. “All up in my business,” he grumbles, but it’s fond, not annoyed. He immediately unlocks his phone and begins writing a text.

When Kent has finished, Alexei asks, “Martin your GM, yeah?”

“Yeah. He wanted to come pick me up tomorrow but I’m not a damn invalid.”

Alexei eyes the damage and says, “Well, you do look like shit.”

“I haven’t looked in a mirror yet, so thanks for that.” In Kent’s arms, Kit wiggles until he puts her down. She then trots into the kitchen and yells at him when he doesn’t follow.

“I’m feed her,” Alexei says. “Half of can. She give me sad eye but I don’t know she get food again so late.”

“She doesn’t.” Kent’s mouth tries to smile and he winces at it, although the faint amusement sticks in his eyes. “She played you.”

“She pretty kitty, I’m can’t say no to.”

“That’s my girl,” Kent says fondly. He reaches to pick up his bag.

Alexei hurries forward and snaps it up. “No, you just come from hospital,” he admonishes when Kent tries to argue. “Still wear clothes from game. Go change.”

Kent hesitates.

“ _Shoo_ ,” Alexei insists, flapping a hand at him. Kent shakes his head and obediently goes, Alexei coming along with the bag. It’s painfully obvious how exhausted Kent is, right down to his bones. His steps are plodding and his shoulders slump, even his head listing downward as though too heavy to fight gravity. In his own bedroom, he slaps the wall twice before finding the light switch.

Kit comes along, sneaking between their feet and jumping onto the bed.

“Voyeur,” Kent tells her, and awkwardly starts pulling off his sweatshirt. He struggles.

“Arms sore? Hands hurt?” Alexei asks quietly. “Because fight?”

Kent grunts an affirmative.

“You hungry?” It’s a rhetorical question. Kent is a professional athlete who played almost a full game of hockey today. Even if they’d fed him at the hospital, he must be—

“Starving,” Kent mumbles, starting in on his t-shirt.

Alexei nods. “I make something.”

“Thanks.”

Kent has plenty of leftovers in his fridge, all boxed up, so Alexei selects dishes with meat, beans, and vegetables. He heats it all up in the microwave and then piles it onto the biggest dinner plate he can find. Kent has a surprising amount of dinnerware. Alexei wonders if Kent often has people over to use it, or if it all just came in a set.

Kent wanders into the kitchen while Alexei is rummaging for silverware.

“God, that smells good.”

Alexei puts the plate on the bar counter that looks out over the living room. “You want eat here, go to room…?”

Kent sinks onto a stool and digs in.

“Okay.”

The next twenty minutes are pure silence while Kent devours the food. He eats slowly, more so than Alexei thinks he wants to, wincing every so often at the pain in his lip or the bruising around his cheek.

It’s weirdly peaceful. It shouldn’t be. Kent is so tired and so stressed and so badly beaten up, and Alexei is wading through a quagmire of perilous feelings and impulses building in his chest.

Kent finishes his dinner by licking the plate. Alexei takes it and puts it in the dishwasher, along with the fork that’s been sucked clean.

Gingerly, Kent crosses his arms on the counter and rests the un-bandaged side of his forehead on them. “I wanna sleep for a million years,” he mumbles. He’s already in what looks like his bedclothes, a faded t-shirt and warm sweatpants.

“You need shower?”

“Yeah. But I’m not gonna. Just wanna sleep.” But he doesn’t get up, doesn’t lift his head. He rests there, breathing steadily and not speaking.

Alexei comes out of the kitchen and sits next to him. Kent is facing his way but his eyes are closed, mouth pinched.

After a little while, Kent says, “You wanna know what he said, don’t you? You wanna know what he said that made me hit him.” He doesn’t open his eyes.

“You want tell me?”

Kent’s mouth tightens. “No.”

“Okay. Maybe should go to bed, not sleep on counter.”

Kent doesn’t move.

Tentatively, Alexei touches a hand to Kent’s spine and rubs. He means it to be soothing but Kent flinches, jerks himself inwards so his body is no longer under Alexei’s fingers. Alexei withdraws.

Kent lifts his head and looks down at his arms, still crossed on the counter. “Don’t,” he says shortly. “You keep—Just don’t. Don’t take care of me.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your job right now, to take care of me.”

And that’s true. Alexei’s paid hours are during the day and he’s way off the clock right now. Neither of them is being meticulous about the time, but there really is nothing obligating Alexei to stay with Kent right now.

“Someone should,” he says. “I’m here, so.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to. I’m a grown-ass man, Alexei, I got this.”

That’s true, too. Kent is an adult and a veteran of the NHL. He’s dealt with far worse than a split lip, a few bruises, and stitches, and handled them while living alone. He even dealt with his own coming out, and the outpouring of callous cruelty that followed. He could have dealt with his high school reunion, if he’d had to.

But he hadn’t wanted to. He’d put his career at risk by hiring a male escort to accompany him, an escort whom he’d specifically requested wouldn’t mind talking about hockey, because above all else, Kent hadn’t wanted to be alone.

And just like that, Alexei feels like he had earlier today when he’d skated for the first time in ten years. It’s a feeling of absolute, paralyzing terror at the sheer magnitude of what he’s experiencing, and simultaneously the most freeing sensation he’s ever known.

Alexei had liked being there for Kent. He’d liked joking with him, giving him pet names, making him laugh on the dance floor. He’d liked the way Kent had looked at him, when Alexei told him he played beautiful hockey. He likes Kent’s off-beat sense of humor, his obsession with his cat, his genuine friendship with his team, the way he lights up when he talks about hockey. Alexei likes that Kent lets himself be bullied via pies by a tiny Southern Falcs fan, and how obnoxiously cocky Kent can be once he’s on the ice.

Alexei is more grateful than he can say, that Kent has never looked at him and seen something broken and useless.

The only thing he hates, in this moment, is how defeated Kent looks, hunched and bruised and thinking Alexei wouldn’t care about him if he wasn’t paid.

“I’m not obligated,” Alexei says. He feels—God, he doesn’t know what he feels. He’s going to open his mouth and see what falls out. “Maybe you got this. But don’t have to, you know? Not alone. I’m here.”

“You’re here because I paid for your plane ticket. You’re here to deal with your own shit, not mine. Thanks for dinner. You’re off the hook.” He slides from the stool. “I’m going to bed.”

“Maybe I’m come to deal with my shit,” Alexei replies. “Is not mean I can’t deal with your shit, too.”

“No, but what I’m telling you is that you don’t have to. Okay?” Kent stares him down. “I booked you through the agency because it gives you a plausible and financially beneficial reason to fly to fucking Vegas for three days, and because I didn’t have your phone number. I’m not expecting anything.”

“Maybe I’m want give something.”

“Oh Jesus, do you have any idea how cheesy that sounds?”

“Kent—”

“Don’t. Okay? _Don’t_.” Kent isn’t looking at him anymore. “I can’t—Fuck, I can’t do this.”

Alexei stays quiet, waiting. It’s a trick he learned from Kent.

Kent swallows. “I can’t…disconnect. I take shit too personally. I can’t let things be what they are, I have to—fucking—drag them along until something snaps. D’you know I pined over my first ex for six fucking years? I made both of us miserable. I still haven’t let it go. I’m trying. But I’m not good at it. And I’ve never…shit.” His breath stutters. “I’ve never felt like I did at the reunion, with you, like I was on a real date. I can’t disconnect from that either. But I’m trying. I just—I can’t have you trying to take care of me when I’m so fucking tired because I can’t push it aside. I’ll need it to be something that it’s not.”

 _You charmed the pants off him_ , Swoops had said, and as much as Alexei wishes to _god_ he weren’t recalling that conversation now, he knows why those words had hit home. It’s second nature by now for Alexei to be charming. But he can admit that he’d played it up for Kent, especially at the reunion. Small touches, little jokes, smiles, kisses, the pet name—all tools of the trade for a man being paid to fabricate a relationship, except he hadn’t dropped it when they were alone. Kent had said that he didn’t need “the full boyfriend experience,” and yet that’s what Alexei had given him. He’d wanted to. It had felt good. Kent had melted for him and he’d loved it.

Now he wonders what Kent had felt, being fawned over like that. He wonders, suddenly and painfully, if Kent has always been under the assumption that it was just for show. Just for money, and nothing more.

“You remember in motel,” he asks, “when I’m have so many tissue with come on it, and I’m try to find trash can, and you laugh at me? Is usually my least favorite part of date. Right after sex, it’s like, when I go? How long I stay? Is rude, ask client, so I’m just wait they tell me finish. With you…I like stay.” Kent had been warm and heavy, and the tenderness Alexei had felt stroking Kent’s hair while Kent dozed off had been frightening in how easy it was. “Cold room, stiff bed, but is not so bad, share with you. Doesn’t feel like job. Just feel like me and you.”

Kent looks run through. “What are you saying?”

Alexei fumbles. There’s no ‘I love you,’ no proclamation that he knows how to make that will summarize what he means. But he feels something, and it’s strong, and Kent should know. He wants Kent to know. “I’m always try be professional, say is job, but is lie. Is just what I say because...because sometimes I’m scared, how much I like be with you. Always want stay longer. Not for money, but because is feel good, be with you. I’m hate hold back to touch you, hold you, say what I’m think because maybe is cross a line, be real. But always I’m want to say, fuck my job. Just want be here with you. Just want you be okay.”

About a hundred different emotions run across Kent’s face. His mouth opens and shuts, then he clenches his jaw, and just when his eyes start to get glassy, he sucks in a breath and gingerly puts his face in his hands. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, I’m. I’m way too tired for this.”

There’s a flood of adrenaline burning through Alexei’s veins and his heart is thumping hard enough that Kent might be able to hear it. He wants to—to pull Kent in and just kiss him, fuck, he’s wanted to kiss Kent for two days and it’s killing him not to. But that’s clearly more than Kent can deal with right now. And Alexei is not the kind of asshole who’ll push. “Is okay,” Alexei says, even though it’s not, and getting the words out takes effort. He puts his hands in his pockets because otherwise he’ll reach for Kent again. “Have long day, should go to bed.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I need—I’m sorry, I just really need sleep.”

“Is okay,” he repeats, a lie that they both need. “I can clean up kitchen. Go to bed.”

“Yeah.” Kent drops his hands and takes another long breath. “Night.” He turns and leaves the room, disappearing down the hallway. Alexei hears the bedroom door open and shut.

Well. That was frustratingly anti-climactic. Although considering how often Alexei has shut Kent out—the reunion, Hell’s Kitchen, Providence—it’s hard to blame him for not immediately taking Alexei’s impassioned speech at face value.

It makes his chest hurt to imagine Kent going to bed alone while he’s so wrung out. But Kent’s made his choice. Alexei has to respect it. He gets to work washing out all the empty Tupperware containers and packing up the food he didn’t use for Kent’s dinner.

After he’s done, he’s still too wound up to go to bed, so he goes into the living room and turns on the TV. Low volume, the brightness turned down. He flicks on a table lamp but leaves the rest of the room dark. He has no idea what time it is now. Through the balcony doors he can see Vegas’s nightlife in an endless sprawl of glittering gold light.

For no reason other than the fact that he can’t find a single damn TV channel he likes, he drops the remote and heads outside.

It’s freezing. The wind is a cold, dry burn. Alexei is wearing a long-sleeved shirt and his warmer pajama pants but his feet are bare. His toes will go numb in no time.

He needs this, though. He needs the chill and the sight of an endless horizon. Inside his head is just impatient static, like the scrape of a puck across the ice mid-pass. He feels uneasy. A little sick, if he’s honest. It’s unsettling, to have said so much and received nothing in return. He’d expected… something, at least, from Kent.

Alexei has always wanted Kent, in one way or another. But it’s entirely possible that his admission is coming too late, and Kent already gave up before Alexei found the courage to give this thing between them a try.

A soft grating sound from behind him is so unexpected that he jumps in the air and yelps. When he spins around, Kent has the door open and one foot already on the balcony.

“That was hilarious,” Kent says, and although he’s smiling, his tone isn’t the usual drawl that he uses when he’s chirping someone. The words sound more like a desperate grasp at levity than anything else.

“You surprise me.”

Kent has his sweatshirt back on. He still shivers at a gust of wind as he closes the door and comes to stand beside Alexei at the railing. “You left my TV on.”

“Two hundred channel and nothing good.”

Kent hums, but says nothing further. Exhaustion still weighs on him. They watch the twinkling city in silence for a long time, long enough that Alexei’s feet start to ache from the cold.

“I don’t know where this is going,” Kent says. Alexei looks at him but Kent isn’t looking back, the avoidance very pointed. Kent goes on, “I don’t know what it is, or what we’re going to do about it. I don’t know anything right now. I’m too fucking tired to know anything.” Kent turns, his body suddenly angled in Alexei’s direction. “What you said on the phone, about—about no kissing, no sex. Is that still…?”

Alexei would swear his heart stops. “Was just being smart,” he says. “Don’t want be smart anymore.”

“Good.” Kent is nodding, distractedly. His eyes are on Alexei’s. “Good, ‘cause I… Nothing about this is smart, but I... I want to kiss you again so damn bad.” He steps close, _so_ close, and takes Alexei’s face in his hands, tentative. “Can I?”

Alexei has stopped breathing. “Yes.” God, yes.

Kent sighs and closes his eyes and closes the distance, and then fucking _winces_ when their lips meet because his busted lip is still tender. It makes Alexei huff a laugh between them, which draws a grumble from Kent and another, less gentle press of his mouth. Alexei wraps both arms around Kent to tug him flush against his body. Kent moans. It’s the softest, sweetest sound Alexei thinks he’s ever heard. He tries to be careful of Kent’s lip and the bruises on his face. Kent seems to be ignoring his injuries completely as he opens his mouth and tilts his head. One of his hands has migrated to the back of Alexei’s scalp, his fingers fisted in the brown curls while his other hand cradles Alexei’s jaw to coax him closer, deeper.

They pull apart when they taste blood.

“Fuck,” Kent laughs, licking his split lip and wiping a streak of red from Alexei’s lips. “I’m falling apart.”

“Is okay,” Alexei murmurs, and squeezes his arms more firmly around Kent’s body. “I hold you together.”

“Christ, that’s cheesy,” Kent mumbles, but he runs a thumb over Alexei’s lips again and he’s smiling through his embarrassment. “You’re so goddamn cheesy all the time.”

“It work though, yes? You like.” He kisses Kent’s nose.

“I like,” Kent whispers, his fingers flexing where they’re tangled in Alexei’s hair. “I really, really like.”

“Good.” Alexei kisses Kent’s brow. His heart is so full that it’s making his chest ache. “Want do things you like.”

“Same,” Kent replies, and then yawns. It makes his lip bleed worse. He licks it quickly and holds the sleeve of his sweatshirt up to it. “Shit, okay. I gotta take care of this. And sleep. I’m so fucking tired.”

Alexei nods and reluctantly lets him go, following him inside. The air feels shockingly warm and the carpet is rough on his chilled feet. Kent turns off the TV and heads down the hallway towards his bedroom, where Alexei assumes he has tissues for his lip. Alexei stops at the guest room door, and is about to call out an uncertain “Goodnight” when Kent turns around.

“Come on,” he says, jerking his head towards his bedroom. “If we’re gonna fuck up, we’re gonna do it right.”

“…You want have sex _now_?”

“I want to sleep,” Kent says. “But I’d rather not be alone.”

Alexei can think of no better way to fall asleep than curling up under a warm comforter with Kent hot and real in his arms. “Okay,” he replies, and follows Kent into the bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> join me in rarepair hell on [tumblr](http://punmasterkentparson.tumblr.com/).


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